


The Catalyst

by Val_Creative



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Arthur Pendragon Returns, Blood and Injury, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Fanart, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Immortal Merlin, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Magic Revealed, Modern Era, Mutual Pining, Post 5X13, Post-Canon, Reincarnation, Romance, Sexual Content, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-25
Updated: 2017-06-24
Packaged: 2018-03-09 01:44:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 44
Words: 215,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3231557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Val_Creative/pseuds/Val_Creative
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin will never die. Time has withered him to a standoffish, hollow mimicry of what he has once been. The boy who wore his smiles with pride and genuine feeling.</p><p>The worst part is he never truly <i>lives</i>, not until destiny spits Arthur Pendragon back out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is unreal. This story has been written and edited for two years and here we are. 300K+ words and more to go. The following chapters will get increasingly longer and the rating fulfilled and made **Explicit** , I promise.
> 
> I'm so excited to keep updating and I'm hoping you guys are thrilled to keep reading. I've got canon in this, Merlin's history for the time that's passed, mythological beasties, old characters, the faerie court, medieval renaissance faires, DRAGONS, MAGIC MAGIC EVERYWHERE, and a lot of slow-burn romance and healing between Merlin and Arthur.
> 
> I'd like to thank my two darling betas and everyone who has supported me as well as my two Britpicks [sermerlins](sermerlins.tumblr.com) and [ememmyem](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ememmyem/pseuds/ememmyem) who saved my neck. And most importantly, half of this fic wouldn't exist without [marlena_darling](http://archiveofourown.org/users/marlena_darling/pseuds/marlena_darling) and I wanna say thank you for taking this journey with me and you've been a best friend to me. I love you lots and this is ours.
> 
> Fanart/promo art done by [andrewonders](http://andrewonders.tumblr.com) \- thank you so much.
> 
> (Future rating as chapters appear will jump to "Explicit" for sexual/violent content and more warnings/tags to be added.)

 

*

 

 

Merlin decides there was no hope left for him. None at all.

Flower shops didn't open until at least 8 o'clock in the morning on the weekdays, and especially not in such a remote area.

Glastonbury has two shops within easy walking distance on High Street: _Abundiflora_ and _Enchanted Florals Ltd_. But as it is, Merlin's wristwatch barely reads ten minutes to 6 o'clock, and petty crime by theft doesn't particularly suit him.

His birthday isn't supposed to be a nerve-wrecking affair.

*

The woods fall unnaturally silent as Merlin weaves his path deeper and deeper in.

Surroundings grow thick with creeping, pale fog, along with the tree-canopy overhead. A scent of rain to come.

The local farming area could use the rain, he considers. The grass beneath his feet appears yellowed. The soil too dry this late season. Merlin supposes if need be, he could meddle in natural affairs. His magic could allow the land to prosper abundantly— _no_ , Merlin knows that much.

But the villagers, farmers and landowners, and townsfolk are content with their living and what they could reap. (What good is meddling where he is not needed?…)

Normally, any journey this far warrants Merlin to bring his satchel for collecting plants and herbs, but that isn't what he's seeking.

It would not be today.

Not _today_ of all days.

He nears the lake. Knows the path to and from like the back of his hand. Today is the reason Merlin returns. Another day on the yearly calendar of the day of his birth. He has no exact record of how many days transpired since… _Camelot's ruin_ —how many public holidays, how many Sundays or how many birthdays.

It seems silly to try and remember them all. Merlin isn't certain if today is even the accurate date.

But he hadn't always been so alone.

Merlin gained friends as those centuries went on. He longed for company, someone to hear him, acknowledge his existence. But then, eventually they too passed. Leaving him with the faint, warm glow of happier memories and another dull ache to settle in his heart. To be immortal was a _curse_ , as he learned—an ugly, and a _lonely_ one.

There's a clearing ahead out of the woods as he goes downhill, his cheeks flushing with the sting of cold, and his eyes alert despite the lack of visibility.

No point bothering with an aging spell to disguise himself. No soul likely would meet him.

Begrudgingly, Merlin wordlessly summons a fistful of white lilies into his hand, huffing out a breath. It doesn't feel right. The downy sensation of the flowers in his hand doesn't feel _genuine_.

"Cheers," he mumbles, shuffling in place, but reluctant to move forward.

Going forward is all he's ever done, and it's been the only choice. And what has that gained him?

Like tunneling, Merlin's ears pick out loud splashing in the distance. For all he knows, it's a person swimming frantically in the waters.

Who— _honestly_ —

Who would be daft enough to brave the icy lake at this time? So _early_ before the heat of the sun touches it?

Keeping his guard up, Merlin waits soundless and a good distance on the hill, until someone does manage to drag themselves onto the bank, seemingly winded and collapsing. The longer he does wait, the more it feels like a dream. (Impossible. He _can't_ dream.)

The tattered, red cape. Broken chain-mail. Strands of blond hair darkened and plastered down.

Merlin's shoulders tighten.

"… no," rolls off his lips, softly, nearly pleading.

The image stays, living as the man-shaped figure hauls himself on his feet, with damp, leather gloves scrambling at tree bark, towards the northeast end of further woods.

Merlin knocks the side of his face harshly with a palm.

"No, I'm awake," he whispers, teeth gritting, forcing his eyes shut. "I'm _bloody_ awake! I'm— _awake_!"

Blue eyes reopen, wider than before, but the figure does not melt away from existence.

Reality sinks in, galloping his heart in the confines of his throat.

"I'm awake," Merlin repeats, hollowly.

He waited. For so long.

He waited and waited and relied on nothing but a gossamer-thin string of desperate, grieving hope in Kilgharrah's words. Had it been so simple? Pick a day at random to visit where Arthur's last moments had been, and…?

The fistful of pure white lilies releases from Merlin's trembling hand, crushing under his wool-lined boots as he takes the first, few uncertain steps forward. Before losing sight of what eerily resembles Arthur—but it _COULDN'T_ be that simple, could it—vanishing from the clearing.

The next steps carrying Merlin become a running start.

*

Not far now.

Merlin's legs take him on, pounding his feet across the dewy, slippery grass and then patches of dirt and twigs, but his mind feels as if it hazes.

Everything's slowing down as the ashes and beeches, and the greenery underbrush blur on all sides of him. He waited. But for _this_ —chasing a long-lost memory, a colourful and familiar spark in the grey, fog-dull scenery? His exhales ghost out of him, and Merlin's chest roars hot.

Up ahead, the man-shaped figure appearing sodden to the bone but steadier, makes a jerking left and dives into the thicket.

Merlin follows him, and would follow Camelot's king to the very end of time and humanity itself. He braces himself in a wince. The back of Merlin's head impacts a tree trunk, as a chain-mail arm pins him by the throat. He flails in place.

His attacker presses in without mercy, a knee to Merlin's thigh.

A growl emits, ready to be voiced before everyone stills.

"… _Merlin_?"

His name a single exhale, Arthur's brow furrowing in confusion and his tone a mix of it all, including confusion and _relief_. The arm covered in wet, cold metal to Merlin's neck lessens its callous intent. Allowing him another large gulp for air. The run-to and being pitched forward already knocked the wind out of him.

But the close-up of Arthur's face, how still firm and unaged, doubles the sensation.

His eyes never break their awed, terrified gaze on Arthur. _Arthur_.

Merlin's lips draw apart.

"… Yeh?"

(Of all the things to come out of his mouth, of all things Merlin thought he might get the chance to say. Instead, he sounds like a clueless twit. Fantastic.)

Arthur swallows— _it's him, he can feel it, his magic feels it_ —and stops the crushing pressure from his arm resting on Merlin's throat.

He gives Merlin a pointed look with both eyebrows raised.

"Are you going to keep staring at me, or are you going to explain what is happening?" he asks.

_Or maybe you could explain it to ME?_

"I wouldn't know where to begin," Merlin says, flinching lightly at his own words rushing out and too honest.

He takes a brief pause to rake his gaze over what he can of his old friend, tilting his head ever-so-slightly until Merlin's chin bumps down on Arthur's forearm. The lake water has a murky smell, and it clings to Arthur. Not the smell of death, of rot. The smell of a body that had been suspended lifeless in the watery depths for hundreds of years.

Dark blood crusted over the fatal wound in Arthur's side a long time ago. Arthur's hot blood tacking to Merlin's bare hands.

Now the wound's entrance looks dulled and faded to brown.

But was it… still there?

He watches Arthur blink away a droplet of water.

"How do you feel?" Merlin asks. His tongue feeling wooden and dry in his mouth.

"Wet," Arthur deadpans.

The casual ' _obviously, Merlin_ ' tone is so familiar and yet impossibly strange in his ears. He shakes his head.

"I feel fine… _why_ do I feel fine, Merlin?"

Above all else, Merlin knows that lying results in future consequences. He has been keeping the truth about being born a warlock, about their destiny from Arthur for so long … it should be a relief now. That unpredictable and fragile era of their friendship can end.

But if Arthur remembers everything, including Merlin's confession… and didn't accept it…

" _Magic_ —"

The word cracks, whether from emotion or the wrecked quality of his sore throat. Merlin's hand reaches up, folding to Arthur's wrist and gently pulling him away. "I think you… it may have brought you back," Merlin explains quietly, gathering the courage to dare and peer at Arthur's expression and the slow nod.

The confusion ever more present, but it's only that.

Not hatred, not fear, not disgust. He doesn't recoil at Merlin's clutch on him. A bit of weight on Merlin's shoulders lifts for a blessed moment.

"Right," Arthur says, heedfully. "Magic…"

Unconsciously, Merlin's fingers round Arthur's wrist tighten to a squeeze.

"And _why_ , might I ask, did magic bring me back in a lake?"

"I put you there," Merlin says, frowning. "In a boat, after you had…" His bottom lip worries under his teeth, like a nervous tic. "I don't know the real answer. I wish I did," he confesses. Merlin pushes off the tree, crowding their space enough to signal his companion to back away a few paces.

"Arthur, I _need_ you to tell me everything you remember."

The direct command is enough for Arthur to mimic the frown. His arms rise to cross against his chest.

"I remember it all, Merlin," he says, simply.

Something akin to gratitude softens Arthur's features, even if it had been mere seconds. Merlin isn't sure how his head isn't spinning wildly with the realisation that Arthur knows everything from those final days in his life. He _knows_ and appears fairly unimpressed.

As if Arthur can accept the facts so quickly and so shortly after conquering death.

It wouldn't be for long, Merlin _understands_ this. There are going to be questions. If Arthur isn't voicing his troubles in his ex-manservant having been a great sorcerer in the era he knew him, then he would definitely be unnerved about being dropped off from Avalon, or wherever, into the 21st century.

But right now, the man who is and forever would be Camelot's legendary king—who had meant _everything_ to Merlin—stood in front of him, tall in the early morning chill. Looking like a bit of a drowned rat covered in armour, in his opinion.

A _beautiful_ one, and the best one Merlin has ever laid eyes on.

"Is it truly important to recall it?"

Arthur speaking again brings him to himself, and Merlin realizes with a hardened lump in his throat and fluttering in his stomach… that very little has changed.

That effortlessness between them still exists. They could have been hunting on Camelot's grounds with Gwaine and Leon in this moment, with Arthur making snide, prattish remarks about Merlin's supposed cowardice about fluffy, woodland creatures at his expense…

"S'rry—I just needed to know, is all," he mumbles, gazing down at his boots.

His eyes burn with unshed tears as Merlin's lips flatten together, peaking into a small smile as he stares back up.

"You look awful," Merlin says with a choked-off laugh.

An incredulous look passes over Arthur's face. "Your flattery skills are unrenowned. But me? What the devil are you _wearing_?"

Merlin glances down on instinct: dark, buckled hiking boots, a thicker pair of jeans, and two layers. He echoes the look.

"A jumper," he retorts, dryly.

It takes an embarrassingly long moment to hit him exactly why Arthur has no idea what a jumper is. Merlin's face grows hot.

"Ehm…" He tries backtracking. "Bit like a tunic, only warmer. And better."

"Right," Arthur drawls, and as an afterthought, he tugs at the argyle-patterned, black-pink-blue fabric with a speculative frown. "It's almost as ridiculous as that scarf of yours." Arthur's glove finds its way to his collar, inspecting its lack of formality. Merlin ignores another stomach flutter. He feels weirdly shy at the clearly physical motion.

Rightly so, he guesses.

Merlin gave up making close friends after the 14th century, choosing to be a friendly but rather mysterious acquaintance to his neighbors, if anyone had been interested in him.

Fortunately, for most of his various and widespread travels, they kept to themselves. So many of Merlin's friends had been swept away by a crippling plague that early century. Little did the history books care to discover that the Black Death had been the result of archaic, dark magic; the endgame of a villainous, foe of a fellow sorcerer.

It had been very complex magic that even Merlin struggled against… but now isn't the time to recollect.

"Oi, I like the stripes very—Arthur?" he asks, concerned, blue eyes rounding. Merlin darts in, grasping Arthur's shoulders as the other man sways visibly, head lolling.

He is freezing to the touch. They both are, but Merlin _isn't_ covered in lake water and probably numbing at the toes. (Why were they still dawdling outside?)

Merlin tucks himself under an armpit, heaving one of Arthur's arms up as he supports his friend's weight, grunting.

"Let's get you to a fireplace before you keel over."

Arthur's body straightens up, as they begin moving. "M'alright," he insists. "The castle's still a good walk from here."

"Not going to the castle." He may as well play along.

With a cant of his head, Merlin fights his balance. He halts their progress to adjust his grasp on the long, broad line of Arthur's back, already beginning to feel sore. This is going to take a while. "There's a cottage not far from here."

*

It can't have just been easy.

Then again, Merlin doesn't have room for complaining about this. He rarely got what he wanted.

The further they go, towards the glades and over debris in the woods, came more stumbling and needing to catch their bearings. Arthur says nothing, but Merlin imagines the other man is none-too-pleased about feeling so _dependent_ about getting about, or how icy water trickles through his clothes to his skin.

"We've done this before."

Merlin hears Arthur's shaking breathing in his ear, and the hoarse quality of it ruins his focus.

"You have a habit of needing me to carry you," he supplies, feigning cheer.

"You know what I mean." Arthur adds, seriously, "I was dying, Merlin."

Merlin's eyes thin to a narrow, but keep looking ahead.

"Not anymore," he murmurs. "You just got back. Stop talking, we're almost there."

Thickened fog surrounding them lightens up as the sun climbs high, beckoning on the new day.

Merlin ignores Arthur's too-low mutter of protest and scans his eyes over the groves.

The unnatural silence from earlier lifts. Once veiling the far-away, clean sounds of running brook water and birds twittering over his head, as well as the whistle of air through the tree-canopy. As if their arrival vests the rightful change in atmosphere.

Arthur's head tilts up. "It looks different."

"… 'course it does, clotpole," Merlin says, huffing for air, face muscles stretching for another smile. A larger, goofier one. "S'been a while…"

"Has it?" The other man asks, eyes tossing a sidelong glance at the noticeable tug on Merlin's lips. Arthur shoots him an unamused look, but there is a flicker all the same. "I believe I still arrived faster than you do for your duties. Never were on time."

"The rules never applied to me. Or maybe so I reckoned."

Arthur's own lips tug upwards as Merlin takes another difficult step. "The worst servant imaginable," he says, in barely concealed fondness.

*

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE ADVENTURE CONTINUES. Everyone who has taken the time to leave me their thoughts, and those of you hopefully in the future, are gonna be my single biggest motivator and my joy and I cannot thank you enough! ♥
> 
> I'd like to thank my two darling betas and everyone who has supported me as well as my two Britpicks [sermerlins](http://sermerlins.tumblr.com) and[ ememmyem](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ememmyem/pseuds/ememmyem) who saved my neck. And most importantly, half of this fic wouldn't exist without [marlena_darling](http://archiveofourown.org/users/marlena_darling/pseuds/marlena_darling) and I wanna say thank you for taking this journey with me and you've been a best friend to me. I love you lots and this is ours.
> 
> (Future rating as chapters appear will jump to "Explicit" for sexual/violent content and more warnings/tags to be added.)

*

His own protective magic hums pleasantly under his skin, against his cranium.

Merlin can sense it, tingling the hairs on his neck and arms, as they approach the entrance of his cottage.

Ivy swaddles the outside walls, casting the meaningful sign to any unwanted presence, negative or foreign magical sources. Carnations planted along the stone-gate clues into the same message.

The smooth, labyrinthine-patterned wood creaks, as Merlin nudges the garden gate open with his hip, still half-dragging his friend. His palm touches the siding of the gate, where Merlin's fingertips easily trace runes he carved intricately to solid, boulder structure.

Without being aware of the conscious thought, the front door unbolts itself and swung ajar, the outline of Merlin's eyes flaring a deep gold.

Arthur wavers for a split second and glances away, trying once more to carry himself.

It doesn't go unnoticed. Merlin believes any shivering to be an indication of the frigid temperature.

Even his own fingertips are numb.

It's not that hard to imagine just how _Arthur_ must be feeling in drenched things. Needed to get a fire lit, put the kettle on, check for injuries, pick out dry clothes and something filling to eat…

As Merlin runs through his mental list for his new guest, slipping into an old role, he nearly misses Arthur leaning away purposely.

He turns to his once-king hunching a moment before righting himself, staring not at the cottage or at Merlin. He supposes he couldn't truly grasp the emotions Arthur harbours now. Maybe ones Arthur himself isn't aware of yet—but he would be soon enough.

Coming back to life from centuries-dead, walking upon the lands you thought you had known from every pebble, every root. Arthur probably spent as much time in Camelot's forests hunting, training, spending leisure time as he did in his own proud citadel, as both a child and as an adult.

"Arthur?" Merlin asks, forcing himself a step back. "If you feel ill, take your time. But you should rest inside where it's warmer."

"I'm _fine_ ," Arthur says gruffly, restraining the clicking of his teeth.

But the swaying renews full-force. He quickly grips tightly on Merlin's shoulder, catching himself with a resigned scowl.

"… Perhaps warmer would be better," he mutters.

Merlin nods, silently lifting a hand, situating it comfortably on the square of Arthur's back, coaxing him inside.

Guess some things haven't changed at all. Arthur loathed being tended to—in a personal sense, wounded or not wounded. If it wasn't necessary, or it (god forbid) _emasculated_ him, Arthur wouldn't have it. There were plenty of memories of Arthur's pride, of his contested strength and early arrogance, and in the darkened loneliness of the past, they brought Merlin a cursory tenderness. But the nearness and warmth of a real body put Merlin at ease, for now.

"Good." A hint of teasing. Merlin reaches out with his other arm, pushing the rest of the front door open. "Then I don't have to shove your sorry arse in."

"I doubt you could if you tried," Arthur replies, only mildly genuine about his impertinence, especially with his mouth creasing into a smile.

Something like heat blossoms within Merlin's chest.

This is what it feels like then.

To have a _friend_ again… here with him, in this abandoned shamble of a cottage.

It was hidden away in the middle of nowhere near Glastonbury Tor, but not located far from the original lake of Avalon. Historians and interested groups thought the lake had been dried up. But it was better that the general population believed that. He _wanted_ them to, in order to shelter it from curious eyes. The lake grew smaller, less potent of magical properties.

How very wrong he had been.

Merlin assumes little of what the peculiars are of his living space; for so long he had not allowed any person in—but to anyone else's eyes, if they could scarcely comprehend it: _magic_ is as natural part of the environment as perhaps the very air circulating it.

In the far corner of where they stand, without any occupant to command it, a sorghum-made broom sweeps dirt from behind an armchair. On a redwood desk in the adjacent room, a blue-coloured ballpoint pen scribbles columns in a hurry. A thin-looking kitten, with golden fur and tiny paws, lounges on the armchair and bats idly at the passing broom.

The warlock faces his back to Arthur, just for an instant, waving his hand aimlessly at the hearth as it sprouts flames, crackling the firewood.

Merlin unbuttons and shrugs off one of his layers, turning back, eyeing him.

"Let's get that armour off you."

Arthur's dumbstruck gaze continues to wander, no longer paying him mind. He follows it when the possibility of _why_ strikes Merlin. He blinks, impulsively breaking the enchantments. The pen rolling useless. The broom clattering onto the floorboards. And the kitten leaps off the ratty chair, skittish by the obvious, abrupt noise, dashing for the hallway.

Oh.

Merlin opens his mouth, perhaps to defuse the situation, but finds he cannot, leaving his mouth parted.

 _Oh_.

His tongue nervously flashes over a lower lip. He draws in a breath, puffing out his cheeks comically as he lets go. The door shuts as Merlin does it himself, guiding Arthur by the shoulder to move away and earning a slight glare.

His hands stretch out, beginning with the complicated strap-work of the pauldron. He lets the heavy, plated armour fall, piece-by-piece, at their feet. In over a thousand years, it would have been easy to forget how to do this. Merlin's pale fingers memorized every careful and fluid motion, every yank, every clinch.

The chain-mail next, and Merlin gets handfuls of it, pulling up. "Arms."

A light snort happens, but Arthur graciously obeys, raising his arms and ducking his head when the mesh-collar swings free.

It pools forgotten with everything else, and the extra padding Merlin unknots before Arthur is left with the single tunic—dirtied and soaked. A jagged tear in the red fabric along the middle left of Arthur's chest. Merlin's eyes search it, for the fatal wound's entrance, for _anything_ as evidence that it's there.

Only a purplish-brown tinge of bruising. Merlin's fingers clench at the hole.

"It's not there," he says, reassured.

Arthur rolls his shoulders, glancing down with Merlin at his own front. He prods the same hole, thoughtfully. "I think I would have felt it by now, Merlin," he argues, but without unkindness.

Slowly, Merlin's fingers release their hold, the pad of his forefinger brushing over firm, human-warm skin.

Merlin's eyes flick up inquisitively, leveling with another pair of blue eyes.

Before he can think of countering him, the increasing high-pitch whine of his kettle crowds his attention, and both puts Arthur on edge as their heads whip around in the same direction.

"Uhmm," he mutters, waving a hand lazily, not sparing Arthur a look. "I'll… be a minute…"

*

The kettle shrieks when Merlin shuts off the heated cooker-top with a twist of his hand, not waiting for the noise to go down before grabbing a rag and removing the kettle safely.

Electricity and gas-powered items were difficult and impossible to operate effectively out this far from the town. But in this modern era, they are damn near _necessities_. Even without the proper wiring, his magic does have some lucky advantages.

Mumbling one of his summoning spells, two cups from the wall-cabinet hovers in front of Merlin, at waist-height as he cautiously pours the hot water into them. Merlin finishes hunting around for some tea bags, dropping them into each cup, and he grasps at the cup's handles.

Out in the parlour, Arthur has discovered one of the settees, slumping on it. Arthur's eyes trail over the kitten following Merlin, tail swishing contently.

"Found him about a week ago. He won't eat," Merlin says, feeling a nuzzle on his bare foot. "Seems to like me anyway—careful, it's hot," he warns, having Arthur grab his own cup.

The other man examines its somewhat familiar shape, but not-so-familiar texture of the ceramic or printed image on the side of it. It appears to be a crest of some kind: silver vines entwined and a green backdrop with a silver, coiling snake rearing up to strike. Arthur's nose wrinkles. He has never seen such a crest. Merlin didn't _have_ a family crest.

"Slaay… _thh_ …" he sounds out to himself.

Merlin's lips curl into a tiny smirk. "Personally, I think you're more of a Gryffindor."

Arthur gives him a withering look.

"I feel this is some sort of insult, coming from you," he mutters over the rim of his tea.

Despite the soreness of his raw throat, Merlin's laugh to follow is heartfelt and loud. He jerks his chin as the blond man picks at his red, damp tunic and at the large rip. "It's shambles. Leave it. I'll find you something else."

"I doubt one of your…" Arthur eyes him dismissively. "'Jumpers' will fit."

"One of the nightshirts will."

"You could always _fix it_ , you know."

Arthur's exasperation only fuels the teasing.

"Yea, suppose I could." Merlin finally sits on the ground, feet tucking underneath him. Blue eyes trail over Arthur. He adds, expressionless, "But then, I suppose I could let you sleep in your wet, dirty clothes and save all the dry ones for myself."

"Yes, then I'd simply take your bed. I'm sure it will do the trick of keeping me warm. Hope you don't mind damp sheets," Arthur challenges.

Merlin holds back an eyeshrug, just barely, but returns the little smile on Arthur's face. The edgy feeling, like pacing, fades off. They were joking. About _magic_. About Merlin _having_ magic. Arthur looks more comfortable beside the roaring fire, visibly warmer, broad shoulders no longer shivering.

 _Gladdened_ —that is the emotion Merlin feels coursing through him. He's sure of it.

That smile kindles a pocket of warmth, deeper than the heat of the fire soaking in Merlin's bones, or the cup of tea in his hands.

It's warmth, he realises, that Merlin dares to hope long ago could find him one day. The warmth and appreciation of an unbreakable _friendship_. Not a trace of mocking or sardonic intent. It's perhaps the third time this morning Merlin goes speechless, if only briefly.

He leans forward, his own cup in the curl of his hand. Merlin scratches behind the kitten's ear as it purrs quietly, his eyes softening. The kitten rubs its head into Merlin's palm, arching its back slowly into the affectionate touch. The few days ago Merlin saw it in the rain gutter, golden fur muddied, hungry and mewling and huddling inside Merlin's double-layered overcoat, the kitten never fussed about a stranger. It never clawed Merlin in fear when the warlock bathed it or let it nap on his bed.

Arthur snorts, witnessing the animal-to-human display with semi-interest. "Where did you say you found the beast again?"

Merlin's eyes remain lowered, smile widening, exposing his teeth.

"He didn't mean it, Gaius," he murmurs, sing-songing. "Arthur's a mean, ole cabbagehead; yes, yes he is…"

The kitten nudges its head towards Arthur's fingers, warm, soft fur touching against a curious hand.

"Does Gaius know you named a scrawny feline after him? I'm rather offended on his behalf."

Merlin's shoulders tense. His lungs suddenly too constricted, as if taking a swift blow and he had been completely unprepared for it.

_Arthur didn't know._

The reflective surface of cooling water reveals the crumbling sadness Merlin hates reflecting back. Of course, how and why would have Arthur known?

"Gaius is dead." Merlin's inhale trembles with a long sigh. "Has been for a long time now," he mumbles.

Arthur's eyes close, reopening with his voice even, "… I'm sorry, Merlin."

Merlin nods sluggishly, dropping his face from view, hands knuckling and cradling, as if it offers some feeble protection from the reminder. No tears are shed for this. He had shed the load in time for him, for Guinevere, for the knights and for Camelot. For friends that had come and gone afterward, resembling wisps of smoke. For his mother aged gracefully, dying peacefully in her cot; her soft, limp hand in Merlin's own.

"Thank you," he says, ears feeling clogged with the thickness and monotone of his words.

"Why are you _here_ , Merlin? You belong in Camelot. You've avoided the subject."

With his fist dry, Merlin rubs his fingers under an eye, glimpsing summer-blue eyes on him. They aren't ready for this conversation.

"How long do you think you were in the lake, Arthur… ?"

Arthur's cup sets on the nearby table, elbows weighing on his knees.

"How should I know?" He answers, face scrunching, "It didn't… There was no _time_. I couldn't have been there for long, yet it could have not been a day." Arthur examines him, dread overtaking his features. "But I have the feeling… that you know how long I have been away."

"Long enough," Merlin admits, braving down the wildest urge to laugh at his own pathetically understated words. "Times have changed, Arthur. They really have. When everyone believed you passed on, Gwen was crowned the new ruler. The streets were filled… people throwing flowers, cheering for her…"

A laugh does pass his lips. Merlin places a hand flat down, tilting his face upwards and fixing his stare on empty space.

"They loved her. Her kindness… her good heart. You would have been proud of her."

He didn't hear Arthur shift on the settee, heart thudding.

The news wouldn't be surprising. Arthur had no heirs or true-born siblings. But he doesn't hide the gratitude or appreciation in his expression at the mention of Gwen, however faint it is, and it echoes in a close-lipped smile on Merlin. Yes, he leaves off the knowledge of her death. It's far too early to say it. Merlin purposely speaks as if it has been so long ago, hoping Arthur would be eased into the truth that it hasn't been weeks, or months, or even the measure of several _decades_ since his painful death.

"Struggling with the acceptance of magic lingered in the kingdom. But, I think Camelot tried… to accept those like me."

"Those with sorcery?"

Merlin solemnly tips a bit of drink into his mouth, wishing for something stronger. It certainly hadn't been glamorous. He hadn't requested the title of Court Sorcerer. Merlin had not _told_ anyone of his magic, at the risk of what it would do and to Arthur's queen. Still hiding in plain sight, though discouraging, was necessary.

He preferred the occupation of a physician's assistant, before eventually accepting Gwen's stubborn proposal of the higher rank of Court Physician. His resolve almost wavered, back then: freshly grieving Arthur's death and unable to face the kingdom with the terrible news. It isn't a time he wished to relive ever again.

The words about the Once and Future King had rang with him. Made him _believe_ that, one day, they would all see Arthur's face again. (Destinies were not created to be known line-by-line, and Merlin wonders in the back of his mind why now this has happened.)

"You won't see very much of it. Sorcery is viewed more… like a farce now," he explains. "Hardly anyone think it's real."

A skeptic noise.

"That isn't possible."

"I can assure you it is, Arthur."

Other than that, he seems, dare Merlin think, _complacent_ about what he hears. Being raised under Uther's shadowy, hateful reign against magic must have caused some internal conflict between what his father told him and what morals Arthur constructed of his own free will.

Arthur's heart was _pure_ , that's what Merlin remembers. Innocent lives weren't object to harm, not under Arthur's rule.

However, the next part would the most difficult to swallow.

"I'm done with secrets. You deserve to know the whole truth, as much as I can give you." Merlin firmly meets his eyes, and forgoes personal space, holding onto Arthur's knee. "Camelot's gone… it's the twenty-first century, Arthur. Nearly two thousand years since I put your body in Avalon's lake."

At first, it doesn't look as if it registers. Arthur's eyebrows furrow, gaze still on Merlin. His colour drains away.

Two thousand years.

At the low, spooked noise escaping Arthur's mouth, Merlin kneels up from the floor, his fingers clenching on that knee. Something warm and _grounding_ to Arthur's sinking reality.

It's a frighteningly stark discovery. Everything Arthur has known, his lands, his kingdom, his _world_ has been torn from him and replaced with foreign concepts. It allows Merlin a bout of nausea to imagine how Arthur would fare beyond the cottage and the woods. Let alone how he may react to brand new machinery and behaviour.

"Merlin, you can't expect me to believe…"

Yet, he does. There's earnest in Merlin's face—a long-forgotten compassion.

Arthur looks like he's going to be sick all over himself.

His back curves in, elbows scooting up his thighs as the blond man clasps his hands in front of his mouth, but does not emit anymore helpless breaths. He's steadier.

"I'm sorry there isn't another way to go about this," Merlin says, benign. "It might take time for you to understand and I don't blame you if this is frightening." He shook his head, the dark fringe flopping. "I can hardly believe it myself sometimes."

"But you're here and right when I _look_ at you…"

Arthur's eyes flick up, as Merlin's following breath comes out rough, loud from his mouth. The other man beams a little, cheeks dimpling.

"… s'like being back home."

The corners of Arthur's lips quirk appreciatively. "This could be a dream," he points out.

"Rubbish dream, I expect," Merlin says cynically, letting Arthur's knee go.

"If it isn't, then you've been away from home for some time, haven't you?"

The murmured question reels Merlin's thoughts from their scattered paths. A very long time, _yes_. More than Arthur can ever perceive without the hardened immortality.

"Doesn't matter. You're here now, Arthur—which means you _needed_ to be here."

The cottage's heat fills Merlin's limbs, making his eyelids heavy.

He clears his throat, blinking slowly. "And… you should get some rest, for an hour or so," Merlin says, lightly scoffing, rising to his feet and snatching up Arthur's now cold and tasteless cup of tea. "You barely look like you can stay sitting upright for another minute."

"For once, you may be right," Arthur murmurs, running a hand over his face. "It seems more and more miracles are occurring."

Merlin gestures to the door towards the corridor, ignoring the jibe.

"Bed's in there," he says, scratching at the back of his neck. His features scrunch up as Merlin swallows down a big yawn, releasing a soft noise through his nostrils. "Take a load off. I'll wake you for dinner."

He hears a grunt from his companion before Arthur disappears behind the bedroom door left open a crack.

It's enough to draw Gaius' attention from kneading the braided, taupe-coloured rug with his claws. The kitten approaches the door, slipping in quiet like a shadow.

Merlin snickers to himself, passing through the corridor into the kitchen.

(Hope Arthur doesn't mind some company.)

The radio remains switched off—though, he did enjoy music while washing or cooking—as the warlock rolls up his jumper sleeves and pulls at the cutlery drawers, aimless in his intentions.

What would Arthur eat after being _dead_? What _could_ he eat? Did he still fancy his favourite foods or would he experience severe food reactions?

Those faintly inane questions swim around his mind as Merlin copies Arthur's earlier motions, rubbing at his eyes until they water.

His legs feel incredibly tired. Merlin sinks into a small, wooden stool facing away from the kitchen entrance, leaning into the counter-top, jaw weighing on an opened palm.

 _Dinner_ …

Eyelids creep down, shutting Merlin's blurred vision as his entire body loosens, relaxing.

*

The darkness of sleep never grasps him entirely.

Rather, he seems feather-light, hovering around in abyssal space. Flashes of colour erupt around him, sparking vivid lightning. Pale faces grinning—

 

                           _Morgana's face split with beautifully deranged grimace and framed by her wild, black hair_

_Mordred, eyes icy on him, cloaked in the silvery cast of mail, his teeth bared like a feral animal_

 

Everything quivers out of focus, scintillate-flashes—

 

_crackles from the funeral pyre with Gwaine's body cradled inside_

_the Great Dragon's fanged, enigmatic smile, roundness of amber-orange eyes_

_Merlin's hands scraped and covered in blood, digging angrily at the blue-glow crystals_

_Freya, shy and dirtied with filth, holding her hand lovingly to the side of his face_

_Arthur's pain-hazed, blue eyes falling shut_

_the Dorocha, earth-shattering shrieking, consuming him_

_Arthur, again, with a rip in his tunic, dripping cold water on the leaves_

                              _strong hands, tracing against Merlin's flexing, naked shoulder blade, exploring against a dark, winding tattoo_

_a blaring car horn, screeching tires, blood trickling freely from yellow hair_

 

*

Arthur isn't sure he can actualise what's happened.

There's still too much, his thoughts diving and churning in a void. Merlin's voice often toed the barrier between growing numbness and his reality, bringing him back from the cliff-edge. Of course Arthur can hardly accept his circumstances. That many _hundreds_ of years, having been… gone. It's madness.

Once alone, inside the bedroom, Arthur's resolve wavers. He closes his eyes and forces an inhale through his lips.

Some items around him vaguely resemble his own bedchambers in Camelot. The bed. The wardrobe. The desk. The sheets. But there are no candles to be found, nor poster round the bed. No quills. No trays. The walls don't seem to be any form of carved stone Arthur recognizes, smooth and papery to the touch.

His whole being feels exhausted, particularly now from the warmth of the fireplace and Merlin.

Silence allows his mind to wander, and that would prove to be dangerous.

One of Arthur's eyes peek open when he hears a low purring noise. The golden kitten paws at his feet, nudging him.

"I suppose you expect to sleep in the bed, too," he says, disdainfully. As if understanding him, it hops up on his mattress. Arthur ignores the kitten, quickly shedding his damp tunic and his trousers, deciding that even if he had threatened it, he will not sleep in Merlin's bed with water-bogged clothes.

He climbs on, taking a moment to adjust himself with the sheets. It feels odd, sleeping once more in a large bed proving much softer and cozier than his own. The scent of another person on the blankets. Faded hints of perspiration. Rosemary and bitter oils that Arthur remembers from Gaius' workshop.

At least this new age does something right. He can sleep well in a bed like this.

Arthur sighs through his nose, refusing on the onslaught of further thoughts. Even then, it feels… nice here.

*

With a shocked, gasping cry, Merlin jolts awake.

He flails his arms out, the stool banging onto the kitchen floor. Panic rises, blocking out his senses. Merlin grips unforgiving into the edge of the worktop, sucking in and out noisy, whining breathes until everything ceases violently spinning. Eyes clamping shut.

Containers and preservative jars rattle precariously in their secure places, as his magic riles and swells inside him.

Ready to burst with the leftover emotions cast by his dreams. (He doesn't … he _can't_ dream.)

He _has_ to gain control again.

Merlin lets out another whining breath, shoulders trembling visibly as his fingers dug harder. He hears an object shatter noisily to his left, as his magic fluxes momentarily from his reach, jerking his head around. Chunks of thickly-constructed glass from the window pane litter over the floor and kitchen sink.

" _Reparer eagþyrl_ ," he mutters, eyes yielding to gold.

After a few seconds, the window sits untouched and unbroken. Compelling to verbalise a spell brings back a sense of himself and where he is at currently—barely able to keep his weight on his own two feet, his face uncomfortably warm and streaked with tears, chest heaving.

The world stops tilting long enough for Merlin to regain his balance, using his hands to push himself up straight. His fingers lightly stroke the sharp, familiar edge of his worktop. Colours aren't blurring together anymore. The low roar in Merlin's ears dulling in strength.

The panic once tumult ebbs from his nerves, releasing the stronghold on him.

He is _home_ — Merlin is safe.

*

Sleep is neither consoling nor disturbing; it's simply fluid.

After so long in the lake, Arthur doesn't expect how fast it overtakes him, but the tiresome journey and the shock from Merlin's revelation— _one was too many_ —wipes all exuberance from him. Arthur figures he would have a little trouble sleeping, and if he had been conscious, he might have been thankful this was the case.

But once the dreams begin, his appreciation fades.

What seems like memories flood him before his mind's eye: Leon's reassuring smile, Gwaine's boisterous laughter and Percival's amused head-shake. Lancelot's solemn, dark gaze. Guinevere standing before him, beautiful and bright, calling to him pleasantly.

Then, they start to ripple. Images distort. Guinevere paled and grayed.

Sounds garbled as a heavy presence settles on his chest, as if he plummets down. Sinking and can't reach the people so close.

Arthur is powerless, watching Guinevere fade away, her eyes losing their light and a sob echoing in the background. Clashing of metal, of yells and cries of agony. Funeral pyres; firelight and scorching heat filling up the air. Morgana taking her final, shuddering breath. Camelot's walls, now barren and deteriorating, crumbling under the power of a flood.

And then, there are blue eyes. With color _luminous_ , clearer than the water itself, and spreading warmth like dragon's fire searing through his body.

The eyes melt into oranges and golds. A scrape of lips, blunt fingernails, and the sound desperate and pleading unlike anything he's known.

He reaches out, wanting to free himself, to touch, but unable. Pure chaos overwhelms. Emotions and flashes of more memories happening all at once, but only coming to a halt long enough for the darkness and cold to envelope him. A cry, muffled and distant, slicing apart the dream.

Arthur goes upright in the bed, heart racing and eyes snapping open. He feels his leg bump into a furry, living bundle, but disregards it in favour of catching his breath.

His mind runs, images of his most trusted companions aging and dying. He stiffens before letting the tension unravel, and Arthur falls back against the covers with a groan. Once he has his bearing, familiarises himself with what he remembers before sleeping, it's easier to notice the sounds outside the door.

"Merlin?" he croaks out before Arthur stops himself, paranoia and agitation returning.

It takes a hazy period of time to understand where Arthur is, what has happened and why this room is so different. The sooner it does, the sooner he wishes it hadn't come back to him. Arthur sucks in another breath, valiantly fighting the knowledge of everything he once knew crumbling around him.

His ears pick up glass breaking, and more noises following it.

_Merlin._

The name reverberates in his thoughts, and Arthur pulls himself out of bed, kicking off the sheets.

He strides out the door, feeling ill-prepared without a sword. Or any other weapon handy. But he's very much prepared for this to be a _nightmare_.

Despite it all, Arthur could be hallucinating, caught by a fever, and someone was attempting to rob him or a servant was fumbling around. He could wish and wish and wish endlessly for those imaginings to be truth, but he knows better now.

However, it's no cause to show cowardice. He's ready for the unexpected… but when Arthur charges in, he can say this is _not_ what he imagined.

Just one look at Merlin tells him something's amiss, but Arthur only stares in dumb horror.

The area seems undisturbed, despite the racket earlier, but Merlin… Merlin is another story. He's a wreck, shaking and red, with tear-streaked cheeks and panting. Seeing Merlin like this unnerves him, if Arthur's heart battering in his ears is any indication.

He looks shattered in his expression, as if the Merlin he knows has been reduced to pieces and he simply can't find them all.

Arthur frowns, eyebrows pinching in concern as he steps forward.

"Merlin?" he questions sharply, jarring the other man from his apparent daze.

Silence hangs.

Merlin's lips press in a thin line as he marches to the other man. He clearly doesn't intend for Arthur to be given a choice in the matter, or shield himself from the intrusion despite the state of undress. Merlin quickly and clumsily throws his arms to Arthur's neck, hugging them tightly in place.

The action catches Arthur off-guard, lips parting as he struggles for words but locates none.

Instead, Arthur's bare arms lift, slowly tucking them around the other man. This isn't something he's used to doing for Merlin. He holds on like Arthur may vaporise into smoke at the tiniest shift, leaving Merlin alone once more for… centuries. He… had been alone for that long, hadn't he?

An inescapable and terrifying realisation sweeps over him: _Merlin has been_. All the evidence shines in his creased, hurt smile Arthur glimpses.

He wraps his arms around Merlin's shoulders once more to reinforce the gesture.

There was no need to speak— not when Arthur sees it with clarity now.

The point of Merlin's chin lands on the top of Arthur's shoulder. He feels good. Merlin feels good and he feels _solid_. The heat of his skin through fabric, along with the softened breathing and gentle rhythm of Merlin's narrower chest to his. He's like heaven and all the good and bad things Arthur can't ever replace.

Merlin's arms withdraw, however long it is before the decision's made, as he takes a difficult step backwards.

"S'rry," Merlin mumbles, bowing his head to wipe his eyes with a striped-sleeve. "… I d'nt think you were real for a moment."

He glances up, red rimming blue eyes, but a lighthearted smile playing on Merlin's lips.

"Did I wake you?"

"I woke on my own," Arthur replies, dismissively.

(What did Merlin mean by… didn't think _he_ was real?)

"You got some sleep, at least," he says, suddenly averting his eyes from Arthur. What—?

Oh, _right_. Arthur had stepped out in his smallclothes.

He crosses a scarred, muscular arm over himself on instinct, clearing his throat and cheeks warming. It isn't as if Merlin _hasn't_ seen him in full or partial nudity. But that had been under the professional role as a manservant which … Arthur supposes isn't the case anymore.

Merlin's fingers rubs at his temple.

"Damn," he swears, rushing for the available space behind him. Arthur peers over, and then at the sleek, metal-looking box Merlin had thrust open and now stares into. Arthur's eyebrows lower, head cocking mildly as it emits a sound like a winter storm brewing overhead.

What in the _heavens_ was—?

"Uhm, well—there's not much to eat here tonight, Arthur." Merlin cringes apologetically as he goes on, "I didn't expect _company_ tonight. Or… ever. I need to pick up some food in town. Sunset's not for another few hours."

A doubtful noise. Even so, he doesn't think Merlin can journey back before the sun set, not with how far out other towns are.

With a slow chill, Arthur realises that possibly other towns _are_ closer.

Merlin slams the lid of the strange, metal, torture-containment box shut, closing off the blizzard-cold air. The other man restrains himself from jumping, greatly distrustful of it.

"You should stay here, until I get back and…" He pauses, taking in Arthur's facial expression and deadpans, mouth twisting in amused frustration, "You're not going to listen and stay put, even if I asked, are you?"

"Very good, Merlin. You're keeping up," Arthur quips, and while his tone is easy, it holds conviction. He is _not_ going sit around and wait. "Besides, I should go out and… see what has changed."

"I can't stop you and I know that," Merlin says, leveling a serious ' _understand-what-I'm-saying-you-giant-prat_ ' glare. "But we go on my terms. Or we don't go at all."

He raises a skinny index finger warningly in front of him, effectively stopping Arthur as he wished.

"—It's 2012, Arthur. A very long time from Camelot's rule. And you have _no idea_ what you are in for, besides loads of culture shock. There is zero doubt in my mind that you are going to be utterly confused and _no-one_ goes around _anymore_ , swinging maces at strangers they don't like. There are big, noisy cars instead of horses and carts and girls wearing short skirts _and_ there are no more dueling matches on the ordinary streets for your bloody _honour_ —"

The one-sided conversation is beginning to verge on babbling. Arthur can't tell if the reason he hardly understands is because of the speed or because half the words out of Merlin's mouth doesn't make sense. He grasps at the fact that times are different, or at least should be if Merlin isn't playing at him. The bit about 'cars' interests him, but is forgotten.

"There are still _manners_ and needing to act like an ordinary bloke, so please," Merlin stresses on the last word, his face straining. "For once… listen to me."

"It will be _fine_ , Merlin," Arthur snaps, mimicking a frown.

"You say that a lot."

(Did he not think he could blend in? Arthur remembers similar uncertainties when they met Gwaine, and he assumes it isn't that unrelated, is it?)

He places a firm hand on Merlin's shoulder. "Then, yes, I will follow your lead," Arthur says. "It can't be that difficult."

It doesn't appear to reassure Merlin at all, as an unconvinced, close-lipped smile flashes at him and Merlin heads out of the kitchen. He groans to himself as if pained and scrubs his hands over his face. Arthur rolls his eyes at the dramatics, trailing after him.

"Start with getting dressed! You're not going out in your pants!" Merlin shouts.

"I'm not an idiot, _Mer_ lin!"

He hesitates at the doorway entrance to Merlin's bedroom. Things are moving on their own again.

Arthur is slowly getting accustomed to witnessing this, but a prickle of apprehension nevertheless crawls over him when he eyes the drawer opening and closing. Gaius watches, lounged out on Merlin's pillows, with feline disinterest as invisible hands sort through various articles of clothing, but leaps up as the wardrobe bangs open.

His lips quirk as the kitten darts off, startled.

A pair of combat boots soar through the air, aiming for Merlin's right side.

Arthur's stance goes rigid before easing as Merlin snatches them by the laces effortlessly. "Here," Merlin says, looking at Arthur. "This'll fit you until there's some clothes in your size." He continues staring when Arthur folds his arms, not yielding to the offer.

"Is _that_ what the peasants wear nowadays?"

"Yes, that's what _people_ wear when they literally have nothing else," Merlin says with traces of clipped sarcasm. "You're certainly not parading about in your armour like a daft twit so you may as well get on with it." Without needing to hear more, no, not even an syllable of an argument, Merlin tosses an… _odd-looking_ tunic at Arthur.

He marches out, allowing the other man to change in privacy.

Arthur's hands and arms unfold in time to catch the bundle of clothing, though fumbling. He manages to get one of the boots by the brown lacings. "At least my armour gives me room to breathe, unlike your trousers," he says curtly, but Merlin's already out the door.

A resigned sigh.

…Was he expected to dress _himself_ as well?

Arthur fights down the familiar urge to shout for Merlin. It may have been a new age, but a king surely can figure it out.

His body parts enter the properly-fitting holes.

Simple as that.

… …Wasn't it?

*

They both slept much later than planned.

Despite how the late hours approach, and the sun's heat, the November cold lingers inevitably this season. Merlin busies himself by grabbing one of the overcoats on the rack near the cottage's front door, smoothing it over an arm and waiting for his companion to walk out. Knowing Arthur, he couldn't be buggered.

That, or he'd say to hell with new-found independence and yell for Merlin.

Until then, Merlin ticks off in his head what he needs, his fingers counting it out with him: Get into town. Visit Tom's Apothecary to pick up week's pay. Run into the supermart for future meals and spare clothes. Avoid chats with familiar faces, if possible. Prevent Arthur from looking like a complete dolt out in public for the first time. Teach him about pavements and crossings so he doesn't get run over by a damned—

A lightheaded sensation closes in on him.

It vibrates the skin on his face and Merlin's body shudders. He shakes it off, blinking out the grey corners to his vision. Huh?

His bedroom door thrusts open.

Arthur emerges fully dressed in the joggers Merlin picked out, and he really thinks he deserves a pat on the back. No, Merlin definitely deserves it. For being able to keep a straight face at how surreal and ridiculously _casual_ —or rather, just how _ridiculous_ Arthur looks in modern, baggy clothes.

Arthur's eyes narrow in suspicion.

"Am I keeping you?" he asks, standing across from him.

"No, certainly not," Merlin tells him, coolly. This time, he carefully hands the overcoat on his arm to Arthur, tossing him a cheeky grin.

" _After you_."

*


	3. Chapter 3

*

As they approach town, the woods becomes less dense.

Merlin tries to fall in stride with Arthur. Though somewhat difficult, seeing how Arthur prefers to walk in long steps, back ramrod straight, shoulders held high, like he is in a great hurry to somewhere important, to meet someone even more important. All of the time. (Which may have been true during Camelot's time. All of the time.)

The streetlights are already lit. It can't have been that late, he considers. The return of the fog may have had a hand in the decision.

On their way, Merlin briefly explains some things they were bound to come across. Briefly didn't perhaps describe it accurately; it feels brief and he doesn't know if Arthur truly knows what he may have been seeing. Giant metal poles in the distance… floating lights that could have been _conjured_ …

Any excuse to not question himself on what happened. On _dreams_ that couldn't be materialized from thin air— _memories_ , even _prophecies_ , yes. But never…

Merlin's arm flings out, connecting with Arthur's broad chest, as both men come upon a road within the boundaries of the local town.

A wide industrial lorry, hugely built and fast, roars by in front of them.

His fingers grip into the soft, fleecy material of Arthur's sweatshirt.

"The last thing we need is an accident," Merlin whispers, heart pounding, letting go after a moment and immediately tucking his hands into his jean pockets. "The lorries usually stay on the main road, and the motorways. But we'll be seeing more cars."

"Right," Arthur mutters, swallowing, his wide, blue eyes following the path of the road.

Seeing that Arthur could be easily confused by his new surroundings, and distracted, does not reassure Merlin.

"Stick close, alright?" The request comes out gentler than intended.

At the silent confirmation, Merlin's stare draws down on Arthur's hands. Deliberately, one of Merlin's own slides out into the open, reaching out to grasp loosely to Arthur's right hand. Cold, bare skin, but Merlin's palm feels too-warm and clammy. Merlin tugs on their hands, urging Arthur to move.

His own voice sounds thick in Merlin's ears. "S'what people usually do when they're crossing together…"

There's a deeper question morphing Arthur's expression, but never reveals itself fully.

Thankfully, only a dozen or more of the locals rove the pavements, chatting on mobiles and laughing and shoving each other. More bright-eyed teenagers than stern-faced adults. They blend in easily.

The apothecary's neon sign read "Open" in the large entrance window. Merlin stops them, meeting Arthur's eyes, sharply.

"Before we go in, remember to let me do the talking. If anyone asks, you're from Edinburgh, and just visiting me for the holiday," he explains. "I'm 'Leon' here, not Merlin. That's important. The owner has my pay packets and I need them so I can get our dinner and your clothes, and before it gets dark, understand?"

"Yes, yes, I've got it," Arthur replies, glancing away critically into the shop. "Lying hasn't exactly changed since my time."

Merlin's resolve wavers the tiniest bit at the mention of _lying_.

It's not something he enjoys, not now. Now with Arthur. Too many years had been ruled by secrecy and fear of the truth being found out. The entirety of the truth is the parts of himself Merlin wants to _finally_ get used to having, to show his… once-king. At the mention of the stage name, of the departed and beloved Leon, Arthur's eyes dim their usual colour and vibrancy. A hot, ugly sensation in Merlin's gut, twisting it.

"We won't be in for long," he says, somberly, clammy fingers pulling away from Arthur's hand.

Tom's Apothecary smells like cleaner today. A little too strongly.

Merlin's nose wrinkles.

The door's bell tinkles, bringing them immediately to attention. He brightens visibly at the shop's owner bustling around the checkout counter, all bangled bracelets and wearing her ornate, amber amulet round her thin neck.

"Evening, gents. Can I help you find anythin'?"

"Ms. Thomas, do you remember me?" Merlin asks, momentarily startling her. "Leon? We met at the library a few summers ago…"

Recognition flits on her sun-blotched features.

"Emrie Uhas' boy? Not aged a day, 'ave yeh?" she says, doling out a laugh that gives the impression that the whole two-story may vibrate with her. "How is the old bat feeling? Not serious, is it? Coming down with a nasty cough, last I 'eard."

"In bed. I'm taking care of him." Merlin shakes his head, feigning sympathy. "I actually came by to see if it was possible to pick up his envelope," he adds hopefully, dimples popping in another smile. As if their appearance were the key to success, the middle-aged woman clucks her tongue, hooking Merlin's arm through hers and motherly patting it.

"O' course, love." Ms. Thomas steers him towards the counter. "Mind signing the papers?"

"Sure."

Merlin's head turns over his shoulder when she isn't looking, pointedly sharing the message with Arthur ' _oi-bump-on-a-log-get-your-arse-over-here_ '.

He simply nods, walking behind Merlin, but mouths in silence and curiosity: ' _Emrie Uhas_?'

Merlin mouths back ' _Later_ ' and knows eventually he would hold him to his word.

A brief rummage through a portfolio. Ms. Thomas slides the papers to him and a clicked pen. Her eyes glide over Arthur, as if seeing him for the first time—clearly approving.

"Who is this handsome fellow yeh brought with yeh?"

A noise stifles, like a loud, choked snort. Merlin smiles to himself, hunching over the counter and earns him a sly kick from Arthur in the shin. Arthur has _no_ idea what's happening, that much is obvious. Let alone why Merlin and his employer speak about a third party. But hid it astonishingly well, no surprise there.

The kick itself is _harder_ than expected, spiking a flash of pain up Merlin's left leg but does nothing to quell the urge to snort laughter into his jumper sleeve—and Merlin does, burying his face into his arm and attempting halfheartedly to regain control of himself.

"Arthur Pen—"

The other man hesitates, but then leans forward, offering a polite hand. Unknown to everyone else, Merlin slams his forehead on the hard-topped counter. Quit. He quit.

"I'm a friend of Leon's, visiting on holiday."

He must be selling it with a convincing smile.

"What a charmer yeh are," his overjoyed-and-not-suspicious-of-anything-at-all-off employer says, beaming.

Arthur chuckles, sounding more genuine, "Thank you."

She shakes Arthur's hand with her entire arm, squeezing his hand amiably.

Merlin rubs at his forehead, straightening from slumping over—a gangly, bad-fashion decisioned creature—and taps his hand on the papers.

"Done," he announces, lowly.

With short, friendly embrace from Ms. Thomas (along with the envelope of notes) and a questioning look from Arthur, Merlin excuses them from her shop. Arthur leaves a quick word of departure and Merlin promises to check in with his sickly great-grandfather and relay any information on his condition.

The bell tinkles behind them as they return outside, frost pooling from their lips.

"Arthur… Pen?" Merlin repeats, syllable by syllable, glaring. "Tell me you weren't giving to her your full name…"

"I fail to see the problem with that, _Mer_ lin."

"It _is_ a problem."

"Just because you've changed your name doesn't mean I must change mine," he responds indignantly. "It's been hundreds of years, Merlin. No one will recognise it."

"You need to _think_ before you act," passes Merlin's lips in ominous, hushed tones. "Have you even _considered_ the consequences of anyone knowing who you are?"

Arthur's chin tilts up in defiance and Merlin can feel his ears go red, but not from exposure of the bitter cold alone. Giving into his chagrin and his anger serves no point. But Merlin had not been able to indulge on such a strong sense of despair, not in so long. Or have the opportunity to vein it towards one specific person; the person who would understand it more.

Merlin chooses to walk away, trying to empty himself of those increasing thoughts, but finds he's not getting far.

He spins at the heel on the quietly lit pavement. The inside of Merlin's chest grows hotter and hotter, and if he opens his mouth, he imagines that a dragon's fire would burst forth.

Merlin's face does not harden, but turns withdrawn.

He says harshly, dropping his voice to a whisper, "Do you honestly think I _like_ going around and pretending to be someone I'm not? To protect my identity and anyone else who could be at risk if it got out that I practiced _magic_? Not even in Camelot did I have much of a choice. It wasn't for a lark when I had to pretend to be a clueless idiot all the time when _you_ were the person who had _no_ idea what I had to sacrifice to keep you safe."

Merlin's eyes betray a deep sadness.

"I have never asked anything in return, Arthur. That isn't why I used my magic," he explains. "I didn't want power; I didn't want recognition. You were my _friend_ and I want to believe that. I wanted to be in Camelot with you. Be the person I was and not be _afraid_ of that."

A long, quivering breath. The cutting pain of Merlin's fingernails bore into his palms, as his hands fist at his sides, snaps him back. Makes him aware of Arthur's reaction.

"I'm sorry," Arthur voices aloud, expression so _honest_ that the air gets thick in Merlin's lungs.

He hadn't known what to expect in return—an argument, if Arthur chose to bicker with him, or had become righteously furious with Merlin begrudgingly holding that information about their past over him. Not that Merlin would completely blame him. This verbal attack had been unprovoked, somewhat on Arthur's part. He can't fault Arthur for being unaware of the internal struggle Merlin suffered, amplified now by the passing decades and decades and more.

But an apology, let alone a _heartfelt_ one from such a prideful man, may have staggered Merlin back a step or two. He could barely count on a hand the times Arthur expressed that for Merlin's sake, or at least acknowledged it to the other.

"You're right. I hadn't the faintest of your trials, and I don't believe I do now. You are my friend, Merlin. You…" He clears his throat. "You shouldn't have to be afraid."

The look in Arthur's eyes speak volumes, of regret, of a kind of melancholy that shadows a man's soul.

Merlin never wishes for its appearance, or to be the source of it, though grateful for the reposeful attitude.

_You shouldn't have to be afraid._

The sentence washes over him, like a warm, calming douse of water to his chilled and agitated bones. Words that Merlin, admittedly, longed to hear… but has never been granted from those close to him. Not even from Gaius. The hope for a peaceful kingdom, acceptance of magic and non-magic folks alike, at times remaining unspoken and approached with caution.

"Thank you," Merlin breathes, expression faintly dazed. Head floaty.

His dry lips press together, as his throat clogs up. This is all happening a bit too fast, too soon. This talk is supposed to be for the cottage, not a wind-cold, public street corner where one or two strangers cast them indifferent but obvious stares. Merlin repeats Arthur's clearing of his throat, tapping knuckles to his mouth. Hoping he sounds less fractured than he feels.

"I… it's all barmy right now. You're going through a lot," he murmurs. "… I dunno what I was thinking."

"You weren't, but that's hardly out of the ordinary," Arthur says, but it lacks the heat behind it. Instead the corner of his mouth quirks just faintly, if only forcing himself not to become bogged down by the way Merlin desperately tries to pull the situation out of the emotional range. "I'm glad you said something."

A peak of silence drifts between them until a cyclist barrels past them, clipping Merlin's elbow and shouting in their direction what was probably a few curse words.

The warlock huffs at their back, rubbing at his arm, more irritated than in pain.

"Tosspot," Merlin says, scowling. "Probably time to go before something else happens."

Arthur narrows his bright blue eyes at the now distant cyclist, moving closer to Merlin instinctively.

"That might be best," he remarks. "You obviously still draw trouble."

With the expected and mild insult, and mercifully gifted so, Arthur knows how to break the atmosphere's strain. Even if Merlin had not appreciated it half as much in his youth, when they had been servant and king. A tad embarrassed, Merlin grins sheepishly, one of his hands touching over his nape.

"Be a bit boring otherwise," he says, witnessing an eye-roll. Merlin rubs at his arm, feeling the stinging fade. "I've had worse. Took blow to the back of the head from Percival once. I got caught stumbling around in the dark—was my own fault."

A reminiscent chuckles leaves Arthur. "It's a miracle you survived. Perhaps that head of yours is even thicker than I thought."

Percival had never been known for being gentle during combat, which was a strong skill against enemies, but not so much during training or accidental meet-ups. That strength remained with him until the end. Or at least Merlin liked to believe so. Percival eventually vanished from Camelot, without a goodbye, not long after Arthur's death.

If Arthur was curious about the subject, he never asks.

Merlin leads the way down the street, going through the automated doors of their last destination in town. The inside of the supermart has colourful, mismatched floor tiles and too-bright florescent lighting. Merlin stops respectfully, unthinkingly for a mother with a pushchair, dragging along a howling four-year-old, before resuming his walk.

He gets yanked backwards before managing another step.

Arthur's hand is like a vice on his forearm. "—Oi!"

" _Merlin_ , did you—!" he hisses, and Merlin tugs himself free.

"Did I _what_?"

He follows Arthur's glare to the thick, glass-shielding doors.

"No, Arthur. It's not _magic_." Merlin hisses back, casting a nervous look around them. Thankfully, no one nearby. "Settle down, for god's sake. They do that on their own."

His brows furrow.

Arthur repeats, confused, "They do?"

He shot him a mild, irritated look, regarding Arthur's disdain. It's a eerily _strange_ place to Arthur, no candles, no rat droppings scattered about, he has to remember this.

"The clothing's this way," Merlin tells him, gesturing and continuing down an aisle, inspecting metal racks and hangers of various articles.

A twenty-four sale on men's wear _._ Brilliant luck, Merlin considers, glancing up at the sale sign hanging above the wall. He discovers Arthur peculiarly quiet as the blond man rifles through some graphic tee-shirts on a display, his bewilderment and displeasure evident in a growing frown.

Nothing resembles the fashions of his era. Too-thin fabric, printed with unfamiliar writing and pictures that make absolutely no sense. Once Arthur reaches the sweaters and henleys, the frown lessens.

They're more appealing than undershirts and Arthur's oversized puffy coat.

Merlin's fingers pause over a misplaced woman's cardigan in the mediums. Extra large. Covered in unfortunate amounts of white glitter and stitched with wool on the front to shape a cartoonish kitten. He snorts, holding it up over his head and whistling at Arthur to get his attention.

"Strike your fancy?" Merlin calls out, not bothering to hide the glee, ready to duck any potentially throwable object—purely on instinct.

Fortunately, nothing does and Arthur's unamused, faint sneer aims at him across the way. The other man has gone exploring off on his own, but then, he's suddenly in front of Merlin.

Hands sweep over his collar, to Merlin's bare neck, carefully and slowly knotting a child-sized scarf to his neck.

"Much better," Arthur says, inspecting his work. "It suits you."

A flush of pink colouring crawls up Merlin's cheeks.

He stares, _wonderstruck_ , as Arthur pretends not to meet his eyes and playfully claps Merlin on the shoulder. Merlin's fingers brush over the wool, bright red material, where the ends need tucking in. It's just enough of it to go round Merlin's throat once.

"Suppose… it does," he answers, breathy.

What was Arthur even playing at…?

Merlin joins him as the other man adds another item to the armful, curiously attempting to gaze his profile. "But we're supposed to be looking for clothes for _you_ , not me, remember?"

"You could do with some more judging by that shirt of yours."

A light snort. Merlin shoves two pairs of jeans to Arthur's collection. "Can I leave you to the changing room? It's right behind us. I can pick up ingredients for dinner and some lighter meals while you decide what you want." He adds, hastily, "Just remember to try them on and take them off before exiting, or they'll accuse you of stealing."

He may have been apprehensive about having Arthur do this by himself (though, it had been _his_ idea). Merlin swallows it down in favour of nodding encouragingly at Arthur clutching at the small heap of brand new outfits and wearing a disoriented expression Merlin isn't sure he's aware of letting slip. It quickly dissipates into a vacant one as Arthur marches away.

" _Stay put_ when you're done, I mean it," Merlin reminds him, shouting towards his back. "Don't wander off!"

He stares at the glittery women's cardigan still balled in his hand, exasperated.

"This is a bad idea."

Walking past, a heavily dressed, dark-skinned teenager makes a face at him.

Merlin simpers, turning and politely hanging the cardigan back on the rack before retreating for the opposite end of the shop.

*

He still has the bundle of clothes, pressing it down with both hands to keep it in place.

When Merlin had mentioned _changing room_ , Arthur's head swerves to examine the area and the gated doors of the tall, cornered structure. He was being left here to do it himself? Arthur surely could handle it. He wasn't a priss that needed Merlin to dress him each time. He did very well on his own back at Merlin's home.

"Yes, alright," Arthur had muttered, mentally waving off Merlin's reminders. Once alone, he strolls off to the right direction.

A few, opened chambers— _rooms_ lined up in a hallway, reflective surfaces— _mirrors_ within each one. Arthur wavers, but only a moment, before ducking into the first door.

He stares dumbly at the pile in his arms, dropping it on a small, attached bench and shucking through them. One set of breec— _jeans_ are looser, unlike Merlin's; while the other man's were dark and skinny, the ones in Arthur's hands are lighter and feel rough and stretched. Arthur tosses them aside, going for the longer, black pair of trousers.

After inspecting them and silently approving, he moves on to the tuni— _shirts_ and abandons the three or four that don't interest him.

During this, Arthur considers what's happened earlier.

How Merlin behaved when he nearly revealed his name to an utter stranger. His pacing had been rigid and dangerous, and the clouds rising from Merlin's mouth left in sharp, constant puffs. If Merlin was larger and wasn't _Merlin_ , then Arthur might have been concerned.

It wasn't truly often Merlin lost his temper in that way, not from Arthur's memories, but in the last weeks of his reign… Merlin had been tense, snappy and his eyes mimicked the dim light they had now. Arthur had almost wished that Merlin would have looked angry.

The saddened, distant emotion in those normally luminous blue eyes seemed unnatural. He had been grilled by enemy leaders, faced Morgana at full power, Uther at peaked rage, but of all the times he had been rendered speechless. He didn't _understand_ what was going through Merlin's head. As much as Arthur had come to terms with the fact that Merlin was a sorcerer, a good one, and had done many things for him over the years, Arthur still couldn't possibly understand it all.

Merlin had been _by his side_ when they sought to execute rogue sorcerers, when they chased after Druids. When he continued to ban magic.

As foolishly sentimental as it sounds, Arthur cherishes the friendship between them. Merlin had been the one person he could trust _absolutely_. It's easy to fall back into the mood where he simply bickered and dismissed everything, but after the last encounter, Arthur begins to realise it's hardly appropriate.

The amount of times they had serious conversations of that nature were incredibly limited, and generally Arthur had the power to break it off and go about something else once the point he had wanted to make had gotten across. But then, there is nowhere to escape. Arthur can only stand and watch Merlin's reaction as his words sink in.

This is not his time and there's nowhere else to go. Nothing else _besides_ Merlin, and he plans on _fixing_ what he could.

Starting with having given Merlin a proper scarf.

Arthur can not explain why he had done it besides an impulse, nor fathom the reasoning behind it prickling at him.

It was a _scarf_ , not one of Merlin's neckerchiefs—tiny, but warm-looking and fit around Merlin's neck. And Merlin _kept_ it, wore it so far, and the prize became a symbol of victory. If it got Merlin to stop looking so melancholy and uptight, Arthur considers it a _victory_.

He hums in disappointment, tossing another shirt. This one being a shabby grey, with designs Arthur isn't sure of, but either way he has it over his head and in the rejected pile.

The rest of the time goes the same way; one shirt discarded, another earning an approving nod and placed on the bench. He doesn't bother trying on all of the trousers. After the first two, Arthur assumes they are all the appropriate size. No point checking.

"Are these really what _pes—people_ wear now?" Arthur shouts, before recalling that Merlin already left.

Most of the garments range from a vibrant red to white to brown, which he decides is best. Even if a couple are distinctly tighter. Merlin had told him multiple times not to wander, but it was only the immediate area, right? He simply plans to stepping out and locating what he needs.

Arthur yanks on the door's knob, almost colliding into a young woman passing by. Her dark blue blouse is identical to ones he witnessed on others. However, her mousy hair is pulled up behind her head and tinged with layers of violet and pinks, and there appears to be metallic flower-shaped studs in her ears. She notices him staring.

"… What can I help you with today, sir?"

Everything about her seems _impersonal_ —her stony voice, the way her eyes avoid his. Despite this, Arthur shifts and nods importantly.

"Ah—yes, I require this in a larger size."

The young woman glimpses the shirt in Arthur's fingers and raises her eyebrows, telling him skeptically, "Noo, you don't."

 _That_ is not the answer he expects.

"Excuse me?"

"Not with your colour." With a motion of her slim hand, she turns away, leading. "Come on, I'll show you."

Arthur's bewildered by the fact he has been outright denied his requests, by apparently the _staff_ of this building, but even more so he follows. He's following out of sheer confusion—but not more than fifteen minutes later, Arthur's back in his changing room after being handed another armful, but admittedly, they are _so much better_ than the first.

She walks him back, making a noise of disgust at his puffy jacket hanging up, and returns with a sleek, dark jacket that Arthur is reminded of vaguely—like his old hunting jackets.

He changes back into his old, uglier garments, heeding Merlin's warning about _stealing_ , and takes the ones he needs. Arthur rounds the corner outside, before spotting Merlin approaching. His cheeks are a bit rosy and he's a little out of breath, but Arthur disregards it with a half-attempt to lift a shoulder and show Merlin what he has.

*

The last thing Merlin wants is to waste time.

He digs up from memory that Arthur preferred sausages and chicken, or rather anything that once had eyes and needed to be killed/roasted first.

Tomatoes, yes, but not carrots (minor allergy, Merlin remembers. Which was a pity. Merlin's well-tended vegetable garden had some delicious and sizable carrots during the late summer and autumn.) A couple bags, fruit and the vegetables, find their way into the plastic basket hooked on Merlin's forearm.

He zigzags his way through the rest of the aisles and trolley-pushing occupants, snatching up some healthier alternatives and some not-so healthy—can't wait to see what Arthur thinks of jam doughnuts—heading for the delicatessen. Thankfully, no line to keep him waiting. Merlin chooses slices of cold turkey and other meats, paying for a white bag of them, and hurrying back to the changing room area. Hoping, maybe praying, that Arthur listened.

It may have been a miracle day in general, but he has his wish. Arthur exits his stall in time to meet him.

"What did… you decide on?" Merlin asks cheerfully, though winded.

"Some of the trousers. I discovered less appalling _shirts_."

Merlin examines the dark jacket, taking it with both hands and holding it out a few inches. A partly amused, partly impressed noise comes from his throat. A charcoal grey V-neck, a crisp-white fitted shirts, a maroon-colored button-up, several henleys and undershirts bundled haphazardly still in Arthur's arms along with jeans and trousers.

"Blimey…" he whispers, eyes smiling. "They're brilliant. Did you have help? Not that you can't find clothes on your own, but _these_ …" Merlin says, patting the heap, "…are good."

Arthur's eyes trail away, to a spot over Merlin's shoulder, and he gazes towards it. One of the female workers, in full uniform, stares right back at Arthur with a friendly grin and a wink.

Maybe even coyly. At least, Merlin reads it as such, the lighthearted nature of his grin paling. It's not surprising.

Loads of girls found Arthur attractive in their era. Knights and lords as well, though he doubts Arthur knew of the gossip in the servant's quarters or the kitchens or during the knights' training practices to themselves.

An agitated sensation wraps around his insides, worming and nauseatingly slink coating the lining of Merlin's esophagus.

"Looks like you made a friend." He nudges Arthur's arm awkwardly, to get his attention once more, smile tight at the corners of his mouth. Arthur's blue eyes show perplexity. The sentence hangs to die and Merlin feels, for a very brief moment, like disappearing into the mismatched floor paneling. "Dunno, being stupid," he mutters.

Merlin gazes back to the aisle, curtly pulling away the clothes from Arthur and moving back, food-basket included.

Arthur blinks, lips parting, as words form in protest, "No, I'm—"

It's a flat attempt, and Merlin's eyes peer over warily at a now baffled-looking Arthur.

Shite.

At the till, his head throbs loudly, agonizingly.

Next to him, Arthur remains silent, watching as Merlin arranges the groceries on the moving belt, lips pulled into a studious frown.

Merlin snaps to, hazed, when the cashier points noticeably to the red child's scarf round Merlin's neck.

"Oh," he says, apologetically. The smart thing would have to untie it and hand it over for scanning, but the label end is already exposed, where Arthur had forgotten to tuck it in. So, Merlin leans forward over the till, fingers holding out the label tag, straining for his balance as he does, and raising the eyebrows of the bemused, irritated employee.

When it scans, Merlin leans out, flailing a moment to straighten himself as a gangly mess of limbs and feeling a large hand grasp at the back of his collar.

"Stop being an idiot," Arthur mutters, letting Merlin's jacket go.

" _You're_ an idiot," Merlin retorts softly, face going red.

He knows perfectly well he's being an bumbling fool, about everything, about the men's section and when he left the other man a loss at Merlin's behaviour. It's just… he can't explain it, about Arthur and one of the shop workers. It doesn't make sense!

He _shouldn't_ care. No one's getting hurt. Nothing's out-of-the-ordinary.

Why does it matter that she probably found his clueless attitude _attractive_ and wanted to help? She was doing her job, Merlin rationalises.

And, Arthur is naturally a handsome bloke—y'know, when he isn't acting like a complete and utter prat, and being ungodly thickheaded, AND being severely belligerent to putting together "I was" and "wrong" let alone apologising to Merlin (tonight, however, seems to be a special case).

He's aware of the person Arthur has been and is now, or at least believes so.

His jaw sets, clenching. Fantastic—now Merlin is conversing in his mind, trying to reason away his petty and short jealousy about Arthur and some random woman.

 _Arthur_ , a stinkin' clotpole—who was too busy criticising the modern age he had been dropped into to even realise what was happening. And Merlin's dearest friend—who got on his damned nerves a greater percentage than idling his brain with romantic and impractical notions.

Not that… Merlin had those often. Romantic notions about Arthur. Involving Arthur.

Not recently anyway.

He pays the total, as the cashier recites it, with the notes from his envelope. Wistfully, Merlin glances down at it empty.

"Is that it?" Arthur questions, impatiently.

"That's it then," he says briefly, walking around for the groceries. "Time to head home."

The look of _joyous relief_ is noted.

"Finally," Arthur groans out, following out of the exit. "I thought I'd never be out of this miserable establishment."

" _Miserable establishment_?" Merlin laughs, brightly. "Do you _not_ remember the bazaars of Mercia?"

"At least they dressed …" He flounders for the correct phrasing, gesturing to all of Merlin, " _Normally_."

"You'll get used to it, trust me."

As he passes off half of the plastic bags to Arthur, their arms dropping, the blond man announces, "I _am_ trusting you, Merlin."

Heat sends a twinge up Merlin's chest.

"I know," he tells Arthur, solemnly.

*


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M BAAAAAAAAAAACK. DIDJA MISS ME? (ALSO: SORRY FOR THE FAKE-OUT CHAPTER.)
> 
> All the love to **babyintrenchcoat** on Tumblr for making this edit/graphic for me!
> 
> I'd like to thank my two darling betas and everyone who has supported me as well as my Britpick ememmyem who saved my neck. And most importantly, half of this fic wouldn't exist without [marlena_darling](http://archiveofourown.org/users/marlena_darling/pseuds/marlena_darling) and I wanna say thank you for taking this journey with me and you've been a best friend to me. I love you lots and this is ours.

 

 

 

*

Once they are outside the automated doors, feeling the immediate sting of cold and heavy weight of the groceries for the journey, Arthur wishes he had zipped up his jacket.

"I didn't realise the new times made me your servant," he gripes, towing his own bags along.

Merlin bows his head, fixing his eyes down intentionally. The enchantment barely meet his ears.

" _Lihtnen_."

His magic flares his irises gold for milliseconds before Merlin straightens his back, swinging the bags as if they contained nothing.

At the sliver of genuine outrage in Arthur's frown, at having to _carry bags_ (for god's sake), he becomes acutely reminded of the sixth century. About Arthur going on about the littlest disturbances to his peace… mainly anything to do with Merlin drove him batty. The hiccup incident brings a fond and spontaneous curve to Merlin's lips.

"So I see things haven't changed much with you, after all," he shoots back. Cheeky. "You're still a bone-idled toad."

Arthur huffs indignantly and mutters a word suspiciously resembling 'cheater'.

Merlin lets the disgruntled word go, unaffected by the accusation visibly, but his gut doing somersaults and a powerful sense of déjà vu colliding to him.

He… he had told Arthur, the few days before his passing, about the day they first met. How Merlin used sorcery to avoid being earnestly massacred by a heavy, looming mace and an irate prince. And, Arthur in the moment, bleary-eyed and limp against a stump of wood, accused him of cheating, but without malice. His king only looked tired, eyes darkening from their previous, grand blue, his skin pallid and bloodless.

How long ago that had been…

The envelope with his pay packet tumbles out onto the ground, along with another sealed envelope.

Eyebrows bunching, Merlin gathers them up, shifting his bags into one hand and glancing at Arthur's perplexed expression as the other man halts. "Ms. Thomas must have slipped it in while I was talking," he says, fingers grazing over the scrawl of ' _Emrie_ ', flipping it over and cracking the envelope open.

A simple, stock-titled " **Happy Birthday** " card. It's colourfully printed with a generic message inside about warm wishes and slices of yummy cake to consume on this festive occasion. Instinctively, Merlin's hand raises over his grinning mouth, his eyes crinkling.

"She remembered…" he murmurs, enthralled by the kind gesture.

Arthur gazes over him, heart and throat both tickling in a mix of emotions when he processes the shy joy earned by the small gesture. It feels oafish to ask, seeing there wasn't truly an 'Emrie', but it's not entirely his fault that Arthur is unsure about the dates after miraculously pulling himself out of a lake.

"Today's your birthday?"

Merlin's fingers drum over the card, as Arthur's softly-spoken question floats dimly into his hearing.

He nods.

"Yes. Well—it's both mine and Em—" A throb of panic nearly cuts Merlin off, as it seizes the walls of his throat. He corrects himself, repeating, "Emrie Uhas. We're the same person." A doubtful, pointed stare. "Uhm, I'm the old man who works full-time at her apothecary. I'm taking time off. She's only met me as myself once and I've told her I was his great grandson."

If the parallels in wording had been marked, Arthur hadn't let it show. But, in fact, it hadn't; the last few days he could remember, were slurred and crumbled. Like his dreams and his time in the water, it all was bogged down, only a speck or two being visually clear. One being the reveal of Merlin's magic. The dragon in the fire, the show of _authority_ and glow in Merlin's eyes. Those flashes Arthur could remember, not all of the dialogue between.

At the mention of an old man, Arthur's mind tries to curiously piece together an image of Merlin, bearded and wizened.

What would _that_ look like…? He may like to know in the future.

Merlin's upper lip worries under his teeth, as he muses, "If you really think about it, it's your birthday, too, yeah?"

The idea captures Arthur fully by surprise, and it becomes difficult to breath for a second. His legs stiffen, acting as if they need recovery from a blow.

Merlin admits, shrugging noncommittally, "I mean, I've… never shared a birthday with someone else. Met loads of people while I was travelling but didn't knew how old they were or their birthdays. Seemed a bit depressing, really. Thinking they'd all grow old but … I'd still be the same to everyone else."

Though he couldn't put a stopper on his mouth, never really could when prominent emotions swell inside him, Merlin shields away the obvious hurt in his countenance, with a bolder albeit forced laugh.

He closes a fist, reaching out and bumping his knuckles gingerly to Arthur's puffy-jacketed arm. "We'll have to hurry back and reheat a dinner at this rate."

Arthur doesn't budge at the nudge.

"Lovely," he answers, rolling his eyes and casting a side-long look as they move on.

It hasn't escaped his notice _how_ young Merlin appears, how alive, but the reminder that Merlin has _outlived_ so many is rather terrifying. The cheerful and ever-nosy Merlin he knew doesn't bother to know persons he meets any longer. But, Arthur can't help but to wonder if it is due to the matter of outliving that no longer holds a personal appeal to his companion.

The town's sidewalks come dusk are busier with activity. Many bright-eyed teenagers still mingle with brighter-eyed young adults yelling over in their small, crowding packs. A man in a fur-lined hood approaches and hands out fliers. Merlin scoops up one, unthinkingly and not bothering to glance it over as he shoves it into one of his bags.

It's overwhelming to walk the roads, but it vaguely reminds Arthur of the lower town. The sights may be different, but people bustling about he can deal with. Arthur had been used to his subjects moving out of his way, and it's safe to say that is no longer the case as a man runs into Arthur's shoulder, unapologetic.

He keeps closer to Merlin, remaining silent but observant as they trek the dark woods.

By the time they enter the cottage, the sun has long set, blanketing the sky in stars and deep, cosmic blues. Merlin waves his hand towards the parlour's hearth, flames rearing up and sprouting. "Lock the door and place the clothes on the bed, will you?" he asks, civilly, as Arthur joins him through the doorway, taking what he needs.

He doesn't protest at the command, glad to sense the fire's warm melting the numbness from his muscles. Arthur disappears into the next room, peeking into the bag and dumping out the clothes and spreading them out in what he assumes is an orderly fashion. Arthur's no serving boy, so he leaves the rest of the task to his companion.

In the kitchen, Merlin quickly stows away the refrigerated and frozen items in their proper slots, and the rest in the tiny larder.

A nervous but lively energy radiates from him, making the warlock bounce on his heels a little as he unpeels and slices oranges, thumb holding each fruit in places as a thin knife curls away the hard rinds.

The slightly pounding headache at Merlin's temples is easier to distinguish at the knowledge of not eating. Add on the unexpected reappearance of Arthur and having to drag his arse back here, and the mental exhaustion of… everything. Let alone how Arthur is faring. Even if he isn't keen on sharing.

Arthur pops in, leaning lightly against the entrance's door-frame, as he watches him.

"It's not a royal feast, but it will fill your stomach," Merlin announces, shooing Gaius as the feline leaps nimbly on the table, eyeing the food.

Despite being shooed, Gaius purrs quietly, nuzzling himself to Merlin's ankles. He scrapes together a plate of cold turkey sandwiches, tomatoes and lettuce and onions and plain cheese included. A bottle of catsup and mustard just in case. Juicy, peeled oranges in a circular bowl beside the plate.

"I've survived your cooking before—I can do so now." Arthur hums thoughtfully, wiping a hand over his face.

"Help yourself," Merlin offers, tilting his head.

With a pointed, mild look, Arthur pulls his plate over. He bites the sandwich, chewing slowly to begin with, savouring the first meal Arthur's had in… a while. Not an a complaint at the quality. Relief filters through Merlin's nervous energy, waning it a fraction.

Merlin taps his hands against his thighs, feeling the scratchy fabric of denim on his palms before grabbing his own plate. He tucks in, taking several, big bites into his sandwich. He nearly forgets to use the condiment bottles and stops what he's doing, husking the top layer of sandwich and flips open the catsup bottle. No doubt this appears strange to Arthur, squeezing a red and apparently slimy substance onto a perfectly good meal. But Arthur also doesn't know fuck all about a cracking turkey sandwich and can sod off.

Another bite demands to be taken, smearing a bit of the tomato sauce on the edge of Merlin's chin.

"I hope you have mead," Arthur says. "I could use a drink."

Merlin's shoulders convulse with a stifled laugh. He wrinkles his nose, abhorred by the phantom stench of the nasty drink. Never again.

"Sorry, no," he says. Merlin grins, facing Arthur with hands poised on the counter. All raw enigma. "Can do you one better."

Arthur's jaw slows chewing. A singular eyebrow raise giving a ' _can-you-really_?'.

The other man crouches down, yanking open a cabinet door at knee-level, and holding up a large, clear bottle of vodka. With evident glee on his face, Merlin stands, grabbing onto the two glass tumblers he set out for them and pouring them full.

"The taste of alcohol has improved over hundreds of years, fortunately." He hands Arthur his, fingertips grasping at the top of the glass. "Cheers."

The first mouthful of spirits, after being voluntarily abstinent for two hundred years, burns at his sinuses. Merlin cringes, patting his chest.

Arthur grunts, waiting for Merlin to toss back his drink first before doing the same and chuckling at the reaction.

"Still have trouble holding your drink?"

But whatever he expects as Arthur swallows, it certainly isn't this. It's like a burning trail, the smell itself awful as Arthur fights down a cough, face twisting up. Merlin, however, spaces out on the way pale pink lips touch around the rim of the glass. He takes another long swig, tipping his head back with neck arched, hoping the dash would cloud his senses.

"What the _hell_ is that?" he asks, voice going high.

"That," Merlin gestures with his chunk of sandwich left, voice muffled with turkey and the dressings jammed against the inside of his cheek, "was probably more alcohol you've ever had in one go." He chews a little before gulping down the mouthful with audible gusto.

"Might want to take it slow," Merlin suggests with a taunting, subtle raise of his dark eyebrows. "Y'know… since you're new to this…"

No matter how strong the drink is, Arthur feels as if it's a downright lie. Even if his mind buzzes just faintly, he refuses to admit that Merlin was right. He has downed plenty of goblets and mugs ten times bigger than this puny glass and the insinuation that he had to take it slow.

"New?" Arthur challenges, facial expression switching incredulous to proud determination. "Just because I didn't spend all my time at the tavern doesn't mean I can't hold my liquor."

Merlin held back a snort.

"I spent as much time in the tavern as you did taking lessons about not being a…" he pauses a moment, before smiling wide, "clay-brained, knotty-padded… pigeon-egg."

"Perhaps the time would have spent wisely coming up with better insults," Arthur replies, lettuce and turkey cramming into his gob. He dismisses Merlin's protests. Whether or not he believes him is still to be determined. But he's fairly impressed by Merlin's ability to continuing drinking.

The blond man tosses the glass back, not one to be made a fool of, this time drinking more than the sips he managed previously. It's not a full glass, of course, but it sure as hell feels like it.

There's still the scalding quality of alcohol but Arthur feels himself growing accustomed to it. He lowers the tumbler glass, glancing up at Merlin and blinking out the surge of dizziness. Instead of allowing it to show, he cocks his chin up, haughtily.

Was this turning into a drinking contest…?

Because, Merlin hopes it isn't. Proving alcohol tolerance levels doesn't fare well. He downs the last mouthful of spirits, managing to not wince, getting a pleasantly floaty sensation in his head. He tipped a little more into his own glass, and then fetches out the whisky—Laphroaig.

"If you really want something that will put hair on your chest…"

Arthur huffs out a laugh, swallowing down a new amount of the whisky. "What was that about taking it _slooow_?" he asks, his last word slurring a little. It's an honest mistake.

"You. You taking it slow," Merlin says, looking entertained as his companion doesn't exhibit signs of wooziness. "Which you clearly care more about getting tanked, but, before that—" He slaps his palms on the table with enthusiasm, snatching up his own glass of malt whisky and turning for the kitchen entrance.

Arthur rolls his eyes, cheeks warming, gaze pointedly stating ' _I am not_ ' though in reality, the idea has merit.

Yet apparently Merlin has other plans. He watches him exit, getting the notion Arthur's meant to follow and huffs a sigh, refilling his glass with spirits. Fine.

Heading towards the lounge room, Merlin shuffles on his toes as he kicks off his buckled, hiking boots, knocking them against the corridor wall. He pads the rest of the way in his thermal socks, for an instant raking his fingernails into the shaggy mop of what no-one would consider any formal hairdo, at a small itch. Merlin won't let his hair go past a certain length, but grew it out a bit, just enough that his ears begin to look like they aren't sticking right out of his head. The page-boy haircut isn't meant to look flattering. On anyone.

Arthur sulks after him, quietly as he can with his boots, eyes scanning the parlour.

Candles scattered in the background flicker to life, wicks alight, as Merlin enters. The half glass of Merlin's whisky touches noiselessly to the surface of the floor as he stretches down, to rest it there, and Merlin's right hand goes for his jumper. Once Arthur enters, he's suddenly glad he has filled his glass. Merlin, always clumsy and uncoordinated, bends over and untangles his arms from his jumper—or perhaps it's the other way around. All he knew is that Merlin faces the other direction and Arthur's eyes are glued to him.

With not a lot of finesse, due to his "enormous buffoonery" Arthur often complained on hunts, Merlin yanks up the rest of the thickly-woven, argyle-patterned with both hands, pulling it over his head. The second layer of clothing beneath—a form-fitting, black shirt—rides up with the escaping jumper, displaying a couple inches of bare, lean skin on his midriff.

Leaving the only colour on Merlin being the stark, jeweled red of the tucked scarf round his neck and the fathomless peculiarity of blue to his irises.

He snaps back to attention when the shirt falls back into place, and Arthur's eyes avert his friend as he sucks in a breath. The glass feels heavy in his hand, and Arthur quickly takes advantage of it and brings it to his lips. The alcohol trickles down his throat now accompanied by a warmth rising in his chest, one that had made him blissfully forget.

Tossing the jumper onto the couch and plucking up a nearby blanket, Merlin spreads it down on the floorboards, sitting cross-legged on it. He motions Arthur forward, to be seated in front of him. "We had dinner. Now comes the entertainment."

"Are you going to juggle?" Arthur questions, lips quirking into a smile at the effortless appearance of a familiar, cheeky grin. He lowers his tumbler, and then himself into a sit.

Merlin's arms lift, his hands cupping together between both men.

"Go on," he murmurs, nodding encouragingly.

Arthur isn't sure what he means, eyeing Merlin warily.

Taking the undoubtedly vague hint, he slowly reaches up, covering Merlin's hands with his own. There's a drumming in his ribcage, one he blames for the nearness, because Arthur doesn't know another explanation for this. Not really. Arthur's tempted to ask. But he simply can take the punches the best he can, and follow Merlin the similar way Merlin always followed him. There's comfort in the combined warmth of their hands.

What Merlin can only describe as a jolt of blissful heat ripples over him, carrying itself into his blood, humming and thrumming with his magic. Merlin's eyelids quiver shut, as he draws in a loud, sharp breath through his teeth. It was, was— _Arthur_.

Merlin's spindly hands drift apart, revealing an impressive cluster of butterflies fluttering into existence, surrounding the pair of men, touching the ceiling and sailing mid-air in ethereal grace.

Gold and reds they are, with whisper-soft wings that brush their fingertips, and leaving low, glimmering trails where they fly.

Arthur stares down at his hands in alarm, jolting away in surprise. He looks on in stunned awe, rendered speechless, as they dance in the air.

The brightness and delight of Merlin's grin supernovas.

This is a far better trick than magicking some wooden, painted balls or chicken eggs in his hands, if he does say so himself. Arthur's reactions are well worth it—the initial and annoyed confusion ranging to downright shock, and finally, that _awe_ in his expression. Not fear.

Merlin never wanted to witness such an awful emotion from Arthur, about his true nature, ever again. If he can help it.

Arthur's hands had jumped away, releasing Merlin's own, and Merlin takes no offensive as he gazes at his companion eyeing the glamoured butterflies. Especially grateful for the softened frown. He doesn't expect a round of applause or a compliment. But causing Arthur to be at a total loss of words Merlin interprets as a small, personal victory. And keeps it to himself, thank-you-very-much. No need to spoil it.

It would be untrue if Merlin were to say this isn't one of the _best_ days of nearly two-thousand years of living.

A gut full of food, warm and safe from the elements, not hiding his magic, head spinning in languid motion and heart gladdened with the amiable and welcomed company in his home of… a close friend. But that definition alone can't settle it, can it? Merlin had lost close friends: Will, Lancelot, Gwaine, others. But he moves on, after some time. Merlin hadn't shut himself up in the Crystal Cave for them, willing to descend into utter madness and the darkness in his violent grieving.

He hadn't waited for centuries for a flash of a red cape in the murky water, for a glimpse of the summer-blue eyes he knew so well—even if it needed to be on a complete stranger's face. Eyes that knew the weight of the crown … that knew love and honour, compassion and mercy.

*

Never in his life did Arthur believe that magic would come to be one of the solid, normal aspects of his life. Not in the slightest, and Arthur wonders if he truly ever would be.

This is a _difficult_ change, embracing sorcery, but the more he watches the butterflies, the more he wonders if he can. It's beautiful, _calming_ —much unlike sorcery he has encountered.

Magic has taken both of his parents, constantly threatened his kingdom, his men, his people. It lead Morgana down a path that lost him a sister. He has known nothing else besides sorrow and the evils of sorcery, something his father warned him of—yet this soft act of Merlin's does not cause harm.

The airborne creatures make the air glow, however brief, and Arthur is, frankly, out of clever words. Not only because of the sheer absurdity, but because he is here and simply a watcher. That it is _Merlin_ orchestrating this.

Arthur flashes back to the hazy memories of the dragon in the fire, the orange embers burning brightly as it danced in the form of a small beast while they hid in the woods. It was in that moment that Arthur's life changed, and even though he was dying, that was the occurrence he remembered most vividly.

The fact that it had been… Merlin. The man now in front of him had been his most loyal servant and friend, his own devotion outlasting even some of the knights. Arthur had come to cherish his friendship over that, and now as he sits here, blue eyes on blue, he realises he still does. Merlin, after all this time, is still here for him.

It brings another swell of emotion Arthur can't quite place.

One of the carnation-red butterflies circles Merlin's head. His voice croaks, drawing Arthur's focus as their eyes meet, "More often than not, magic is what is inherent. It reveals a part of you." Merlin says kindly, extending out his forefinger as the large butterfly lands on his knuckle, "It's your rebirth they symbolize, Arthur."

The butterfly's colouring transforms, ever so slowly, a pale, elegant blue creeping over the red the longer it remains on Merlin's finger.

It twitches its new wings, taking flight and hovering into Arthur's airspace. He swallows, holding in a breath, and holding his ground. When it touches Arthur's cheek, warmth seeps gently, mimicking Merlin's faint heat it encountered. His lips part slightly.

"Your magic symbolizes me?" he murmurs, looking back at Merlin studiously, lifting a hand.

Arthur's exploring, prodding finger compels the pale blue butterfly to move, joining the others as their luminescence fades, edges opaque as the simple enchantment begins to dull. The movement, to no surprise, scares it away and his finger hovers momentarily before slowly drifting back to his side.

He blearily draws his attention back to Merlin. Though Arthur does his best to pointedly ignore it, his mind lacks clarity. He noticed it in the kitchens, becoming more tolerant to the alcohol Merlin offered, but nobly and stubbornly, he pushes though. Speaking nothing of the pool of warmth curling in his stomach, pleasantly.

*

If this proves one thing, and only one thing, it is that he still has Arthur's utmost _trust_ —in the face of something his king has little comprehension of, other than knowing magic brought him sorrow. Conflict and war and death to follow.

But if Merlin could see to it, and he _would_ , those beliefs would no longer prove to be true. He would show Arthur the _good_ his magic could bring, what joy and protection and life that followed stronger in its making. A swell of determination, though hazed in his spinning thoughts, climbs in his chest.

Merlin wets his lips, pressing them together, before taking up his drink and consuming another gulp.

"If it had been that easy, trust me—I would've had you back long before this," he says, lowly, honestly. Merlin's eyes flick over him. His skin feels flushed dark, too-warm. "This still strange, I know it does. Being exposed to magic. I would never do you harm, I promise."

He needs. Something. Something urges at the back of his mind and Arthur is _here_. So close.

Merlin waves his glass, a bit too clumsily if he had been concentrating, unsteady when his free hand slides in front of him. Not sure what _need_ demands to be answered.

Arthur, however, proceeds to tip back his drink, listening in.

"I know," he states, blandly, out of thought and effort to keep his voice steady. Arthur isn't sure what else to say. He knows Merlin wouldn't. That's a given.

Whisky sloshes at Merlin's jerky movement, spilling onto his black tee-shirt.

"Bugger," he curses out loud, down at himself, face wrinkling with mild discomfort. " _Sodding_ —"

"I told you, you still can't hold your drink after all these years."

Arthur's laugh sounds hearty and amused but dulled, like Merlin hears it from a distance. The pounding from the earlier headache weakens to a twinge, flitting with his pulse. Without both layers of his shirts, Merlin should have felt a chill. Even with the roaring fire. But his limbs weigh heavy, and ignite with rushing heat from the alcohol in his system.

Merlin places his tumbler down, scrambling onto his feet with only a faint wobble on his way up. He strips his top off without a word, turning his naked, lean back to Arthur. The brand-new scarf unraveling with it.

Without spinning thoughts and a spinning head—and feeling _much_ too content with the entire world—Merlin may have had second thoughts about what he just did.

The black tee-shirt and child-sized, red scarf bunches up in Merlin's hands before he flings them onto the settee, grumbling.

His shoulder-blades flex, tendons and muscles undulating against, unmarked, white skin. Unmarked—with the exception of the Pendragon crest tattoo, enlarged to fit the width of his upper back, and a deep ebony-colour.

Arthur's amused tone dies.

He sets his own drink down, the clink muffled by the blanket covering the floor. Arthur's hands use the settee to aid himself in hauling up. The ratty old thing creaking in protest to the weight. The blond man sways, but steps forward, not bothering to address Merlin before clamping his hands on Merlin's shoulders. His head tilts, studying the crest up close.

His family crest.

Merlin has a retort about Arthur's snide comment on holding his booze, or truthfully not holding it very well… but his words dissipate into estranged nothing before fully forming. Warm, firm hands on him. Merlin's body shivers, finally reacting to outside stimuli, gooseflesh running over his skin where Arthur isn't touching.

" _Arthur_ —" he groans, oddly throaty as the name leaves out.

A razor-flash instinct commands him to shove off the other person and Merlin wrestles it down, far, far away in favour of emptying the silence.

"You have my crest on your back." Perhaps it was meant to be an incredulous question, but it _sounds_ certain. As if Arthur were simply naming objects in the room.

His crest. Not Uther Pendragon's. _King Arthur'_ s royal crest.

Any witty remark Merlin could have easily countered with, any ambiguous or hesitant reply to why he would voluntarily go through the clinical, blank hours of a near drilling agony—it drops out of him.

"I'm yours… 'til the day I die," he whispers. The strong, callused hands on Merlin's shoulders tighten, almost crushing. "It made sense… why I wanted it."

Merlin's words resound clearly, pink lips suddenly dry and Arthur's tongue darting out.

The other man inhales. Before realizing quite what he means to do, his thumb begins tracing the lines and patterns, Arthur's motions subconscious, by heart. His stomach knots, heat spreading all throughout Arthur's steadily weighed body, and akin to the sensation of blossoming.

"You're mine?" he murmurs. The tone holds power, the type that belong to royalty, the type that demands answers.

Yet, there is Arthur, Merlin's friend, and the soft and powerful blends together. Cautionary thoughts gone. The crest, Merlin, both so familiar to him, yet combined is new territory. It's enough for Arthur to hold onto, and he latches onto the solace and commitment Merlin offers.

The last of the glamoured butterflies twirl in cloudy vision, lambent and air-borne, before disappearing entirely. Leaving the low glow of the fire and singular wicks of the candles.

A rationalised portion drowning in Merlin's alcohol-idled brain makes a last-ditch effort to urge him to step away from the intimate moment, to excuse himself and get some rest. Allow Arthur to do the same, and to sleep off the obvious intoxication. The day has gone on long enough; they are exhausted, and no harm can result from going through with that decision.

But Merlin feels drawn, moth to flame, relishing the hypnotic, rhythmic and purposeful drag of Arthur's thumb soft against his flesh. Presumably mapping each dark line.

Was it curiosity… or another sentiment? Did the crest bring Arthur a fresh sense of attachment to his memories? Did he think Merlin completely daft, the fool he had been under the impression his servant had always been? And did Merlin deserve to carry his symbol, unable to save Arthur from their prophecy, even after protecting Camelot with every living fiber of being and tearing out his own heart along with its ruin?

_You're mine?_

Arthur's hand relocks, steadying to Merlin's left shoulder, as the other hand lightly pushes against the knobs of Merlin's spine, dragging now in a downward motion. As if Arthur's voice has a magical undercurrent of its own, Merlin succumbs, veins flaring excitement—the sensuality of it, through laboured and cracked, and bearing a hint of possessive nature.

A shuddery gasp falls from Merlin's opening lips, head slanting backwards. Blue eyes shutting.

"If you still want me," he says. "Then I am."

"Yes," Arthur replies, drowsily, his hand tracing the crest-tattoo stopping.

A warm swell of cheek over the shell of Merlin's ear, as Arthur's head inclines his.

"I do."

It's an answer Merlin doesn't need to search for, deep down. Perhaps he has always known.

They were opposites in many ways, he and Arthur. But belonged to the same destiny, to the same road that led them further and further into the tangled chaos of the past, and shared in their joys and pains.

Merlin's hand rises, once immobile and clenching at his side.

They _need_ each other.

His knuckles graze, for an instant, over the hairless space behind Arthur's ear. Pale, spindly fingers arch apart—Merlin's fingertips smoothing up, up through strands of bright blond. The breath in Merlin's lungs comes harshly out his nostrils, once trapped.

He could blame the close, undeniable warmth of another person, the need for Arthur (deep down; Merlin knew) and the awful, thwarting nature of the whisky. But all the blame Merlin could take upon himself, in time.

The warlock makes a soft, reluctant noise, starting to turn himself around to face Arthur. Merlin's head spins a little harder, at the motion. It registers that Arthur's palm still touching him falls away from his shoulder. He hates the loss, but refuses to glance away, not long from those eyes. On a pale pink mouth flushing with colour.

As Arthur's fingers carefully and gently mapped Merlin's skin, he returns the courtesy, uniting the lonely spaces between them when Merlin's saliva-dampened lips press to Arthur's.

*

It he had been in his right mind, Arthur might not have been where he was.

His hands would not be pressed against heated, bare skin. He would not be feeling the prickle of dark, short hair against him, or perhaps enjoy it as freely. He would not have allowed himself to be put in this position in which his thoughts were stretched and tossed to the wind. It doesn't take away the notion that he is, and Arthur feels disoriented.

 _Enchanted_ , really—both words being poor choices.

When Arthur's hands landed on the darkly inked emblem, in his mind he knew nothing could be more fitting. No one deserved to wear his sigil more than Merlin. The warmth that overtook his body and mind were currents underneath his skin, and every time his fingertips ran along Merlin's, Arthur could feel shocks churning in him.

As an exhale shudders out of him, Arthur is more at a loss. He misses touch, the feel of Merlin.

Then he has crystal blue eyes, framed with long lashes, and a rosy face. And lips.

Merlin's lips are damp, plush. His mouth responds of its own accord, feeling and not thinking, pressing up tightly in the gesture of returning the kiss. There's a sense of desperation, of need, to _not let go_ , to have one moment of bliss that he so craves. It's uncoordinated, but it's perfect.

But the moment ends far too soon.

Before the heat coiling in his stomach has a chance to expand like the current of energy under his skin, reality hits. Cold, icy like a sword cutting his heart. And just like that, it's gone.

Arthur tugs his head back, eyes wide open, reacting as if he had touched a burning bit of coal. His expression contorts, lips glistening.

"I'm s—sorry," he slurs, feet carrying him a couple steps back. Arthur ducks his head, running a hand over his mouth. What had he just done?

*

It has been a very long time since Merlin refused a less wary approach.

Too long since he has shut away a familiarised aspect to what Merlin had no alternative to mold himself into now, to survive a millennia in a world of mortality as the one who does not share it—a standoffish, hollow mimicry of what he has once been.

The boy who wore his smiles with pride and genuine feeling, who would do _anything_ for a needy human being (an audience with the King, or Arthur's warm meals, or the shirt off his back). Even facing death and those more influential than him.

That boy did not care. That boy faced his fears with conviction and steel in his bones, with a strong sense of justice.

Merlin has watched the Thirty Years' war, disease taking the lives of hundreds of mercenaries. He had been there for the burning of Joan of Arc; Henry the VIII's tyranny and his blood feud against the women unlucky enough to seek his bed-company; uprising and assassinations of kings and queens and peaceful world leaders; the London raids and the frantic, horrified screams of his country—Arthur's country—quaking the very foundation beneath his feet.

But he has not always been silent and passive in the changing of the world. Merlin fought as a pilot in WWII, an unremarkable foot soldier in Hundred Days, a medic in the Korean and Gulf war. Struggled with the ancient, dark magic of the Black Death and eventually tricked the warlock responsible into being magically shut away, permanently sealed inside an oak tree along the borders of _Forêt de Vidame_ —until the end of all time.

After a whole history, eras and eras passing before Merlin's sharp, tired eyes; after losing each person dear to him, one-by-one fading to ashes, he could not let anyone in.

To allow himself the courageous fortune to become hurt once more.

He took shelter in the woods of once fair Camelot, in the last twenty years, in an abandoned cottage that he fancied calling a "home" once in a while. He gave himself a new identity and an occupation that required extensive knowledge from Gaius that never quite left Merlin, and pretended that he was satisfied with this new chapter.

And then, with a lakeside visit he had only planned for the early morning hours—with a fistful of velvet-soft, white lilies clutching in Merlin's fingers, the numbed illusion shattered.

Expecting no less from him, Arthur had to _ruin_ Merlin's plans, like the inconsiderate, stuffed prat he was, and took a swift but unintended kick at Merlin's iron-strength walls, ripping them away and leaving him vulnerable. More vulnerable than Merlin's sanity would beg him to grant anyone.

If there was anything who could manage it, only would it be Arthur, bright-eyed but very tankard.

Thrill, pure and electric, overcomes him. It settles in the centre of Merlin's rib-cage.

The pressure of Arthur's lips keeps soft, but it's _there_. He can feel the escaping drift of air, of Arthur's breathing. Merlin's fingers locking in blond hair, slides out. His hand grasps onto Arthur's broad shoulder. Their lips do not part, and just as Merlin's lips press again, basking in another's warmth, Arthur's _gone_.

His companion gazes over him, looking alarmed as he staggers back (and it feels like miles, miles and miles).

It may as well have been a bucket of winter water that douses every spark of contented heat.

(What had… he done?)

Merlin dimly hears Arthur's apology, with a compulsory shake of his head. His voice coming out stiff.

"No, I'm—"

'Sorry' doesn't feel right, sitting on Merlin's tongue, flat and timber-dry.

When Arthur's head ducks away, Merlin rubs his fingers over his slowly burning face, over his eyelids. "Take the bed tonight," he mumbles, head bowed to the floor, dark bangs tumbling forward. "I'll have the couch. We'll talk in the morning."

The stiffness does not leave Merlin's voice, but the rigour of the order is new, though faint in his mumbling.

*

He can't even say anything to Merlin.

Arthur's hand stays latched across his mouth, tightly restraining himself, from creating more grief and regret. He forces him to not pay attention to the newly swollen quality on his mouth, or the damp feeling left after Merlin's. He can hear the thud of his heart beating quickly, but it's muffled.

Much like his judgment, apparently.

Merlin began to speak but he cuts himself off, and Arthur feels grateful for the subject dismissal. For now, at least.

He grimaces before giving a short nod, alright with the order. He's too drunk and too willing to leave to pick a fight. Arthur doesn't make a noise; he removes his hand, fingers curling into tense fists before exiting the parlour with as much of a hurried stride as he can muster.

As soon as he's out in the corridor, the thin air of composure he holds onto begins to collapse.

No. No, not yet.

Arthur roughly bites on his lower lip, schooling his facial features. He has to be inside the bedroom first.

And he does make it, slamming the door behind him a bit too loudly. He doesn't bother changing out of his clothes. The moment Arthur was alone finally is when the air knocks out of him. He stumbles towards the bed, though he can't tell if it's the alcohol or the intense wave of emotion striking him.

The too-soft sheets can't protect him from the painful beating of his heart, his ragged breathes or the tight coil around his lungs. They can't fight off the cold running down Arthur's spine. He lays on his back, head lolling to the side as blue, hazy eyes screw up, and Arthur pushes his hands over his face.

It's no use. He can still feel the phantom sensation of Merlin's shoulders on his fingertips. Warm, insisting lips on his.

The bed and its sheets only further ingrain the immediacy of those reminders—they smell like him; earthy, with a faint hint of smoke. Sweet, heavy flowers.

Arthur lets out a groan of frustration, legs pulling up towards his body until his knees flop sideways. Gwen. God, _Guinevere_ —he can see her, his beautiful Queen, but no longer feels her touch, or hear her voice. Only Merlin's. Arthur's eyes squeeze together, his lips frowning. After a long moment, he relaxes, uncurling his body.

It's nearly impossible, but after what seems to be hours of agonizing memories and emotions, battling inside him, Arthur's mind rests.

*

Arthur's footsteps disappear.

Merlin swallows a rising, painful lump in his throat, stubbornly combating with his own imbalance as he tugs up the blanket from the floor and plops down on ratty, threadbare cushions. The quilted blanket maneuvers round Merlin's bare shoulders, doing its job of hiding his shameful exposure.

His hands search blindly in the low glow-light of the dying fire and candles for the red, small scarf dangling off the edge of the couch.

He cradles it up. The soft, woolen material pushes against too-hot cheeks, to his face as Merlin hunches over his knees, burying his face as the first sobs quiver his frame, choked noises and tears muffling into the precious item.

Sleep claims him, coddled with exhaustion, when he sinks onto his right side, bent together.

*


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys have been brilliant! Thank you for the continued support and encouragement, and I just wanna hug everyone. :) I really do cherish each things that's said about this fic, so any thoughts from you are appreciated! <3
> 
> I'd like to thank my two darling betas and everyone who has supported me as well as my Britpick [ememmyem](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ememmyem/pseuds/ememmyem) who saved my neck. And most importantly, half of this fic wouldn't exist without [marlena_darling](http://archiveofourown.org/users/marlena_darling/pseuds/marlena_darling) and I wanna say thank you for taking this journey with me and you've been a best friend to me. I love you lots and this is ours.
> 
> (Future rating as chapters appear will jump to "Explicit" for sexual/violent content and more warnings/tags to be added.)

*

Dreamless evenings and morning hours are regular occasion, and Merlin is thankful for that.

That he has not been plagued with night terrors and prophetic visions, like Morgana had so long ago. (Not that all witches and warlocks were granted the Sight.) The cool, stale air fills his nostrils, as Merlin becomes aware of his surroundings, piece-by-piece.

His head plenty sobered up, and ringing a little with a renewed headache pushing gradually at his temples, it dents a throw pillow. The hearth black and cold. A quiet patter of rain outside a window.

Merlin's tongue runs over his teeth, the fronts of them filming. He hasn't brushed them, or showered in the last day. Ugh.

His nose wrinkles in sleepy disgust. He's about to stretch himself out and remedy this when… the starkly-coloured memories of yesterday slam into him, rooting him.

Arthur.

Going into town.

Ms. Thomas.

An ugly kitten sweater.

The winking girl.

A tall glass of whisky poising against a pink mouth, and the fluttering of conjured butterflies, and those lips summoning warmth and _thrill_ —

He… god, he took advantage of Arthur… hadn't he?

Merlin gazes wordless at the gem-red scarf balled up loosely in one of his hands, before abandoning it and turning his head to the pillow. He buries his face into the plushy sensation with a determined frown. Shite, he can't very well hide the entire damn day.

There's nothing to do but face the consequences of his actions, and hope Arthur wouldn't take offense if Merlin wanted to discuss what had happened. He doesn't expect the other man _wants_ to talk about it. Arthur preferred avoiding discomfort with insults and excuses to be elsewhere.

But he doesn't see another way about it, other than continuing to live in an awkward situation. And they would, since Arthur has no-where else to go.

Merlin isn't about to make things worse by going down on one knee and professing an undying love to the clotpole, speaking of awkward; he doesn't _feel_ like composing sonnets about Arthur's hair colour or picking flower petals or even buying out an advert in a square to display his affections. That isn't how Merlin would act.

And now isn't the time to consider any of the hypothetical drivel because he _kissed_ Arthur, and Arthur… essentially rejected it. Not that Merlin would have not acted the same, if in Arthur's shoes.

He might have. It had been too soon, after the transition of Avalon to the twenty-first century, and perhaps… it isn't meant to be.

Scrubbing a hand through unruly, dark hair, Merlin blinks the rest of sleep-haze from his eyes.

He yawns soundlessly, untangling from the blanket and heaving onto his feet. A glance at the window confirms what he thought. It's finally raining—which meant staying in for the day. Merlin's gut squirms, but he's decided on it. Go soldier on through the rest of the day.

Gaius pads in, and the kitten stares up pointedly as Merlin's lips twitch into a forgetful smile.

"Is he up, lad?" Merlin asks, in a whisper, bending down.

His fingers stroke at gold fur. Gaius mewls noisily, and Merlin nods, smile growing playfully as he grabs his discarded tee-shirt, pulling it on. "I _see_ , well. Then, I shall have to inform him that he's a rubbish bed-mate. I don't fancy his snoring either."

Finished with his imaginary conversation, Merlin heads into the kitchen, switching on the hob as he arranges a carton of eggs and the sausages.

Cooking would help him steady his thoughts.

*

Once pulled down into the depths of unconsciousness, Arthur remains without interruption.

Dreams have plagued him earlier in the morning, and they were less than pleasant. To dream of nothing counts as a blessing.

Arthur has no idea how long he has been asleep; he doesn't quite remember doing at all, but the waking is awful. His eyes crack open to dull, greyed lighting seeping in, and a slow, tired sigh pulls from his lips. Right then is when the world feels like it comes to a spinning crash. His head throbs from the slightest movement.

His head rolls back into the pillow, blue eyes shutting as Arthur groans out his frustration. His hand covers his face, over the bridge of his nose where his skin feels _tight_.

He's sure there's never been a hangover so strong, and any hopes of a good mood crumbles. How had he—?

Arthur's body stills as his mind races back in time.

The lake.

Cold and misty forest, him dragging his feet, and Merlin—

 _Merlin_.

Subconsciously, he wets his lips. Only the taste of stale alcohol awais his tongue.

Arthur rubs his temples.

He has kissed Merlin. The several drinks he partook of has blocked out any clarity, which is an excuse he firmly uses. There's no need to discuss it. At least, right now for Arthur.

It's tempting to stay where he is, if not sleep then fight off the ache in his skull. But instead, Arthur drops his hand and carefully pulls himself up. He feels groggy and dirty, and particularly nauseous as he stabilizes himself on the edge of the bed, bracing himself as he stands.

Arthur's stomach lurches again, but after a moment of regaining himself, it calms.

The bedroom door creaks open, giving him a cringe as Arthur enters the hallway, cradling the side of his head when each step pounds his head more. From another part of the cottage, a loud meow echoes. An irritated scowl appears on Arthur's face, and he massages his temple lightly.

Merlin's already in the kitchen.

He weighs his options, already in the doorway. Pretend you don't remember. It never happened. The thought process repeats as Arthur steels himself and walks in, scowl unmoved.

"Could that animal of yours be any louder in the morning?" he grumbles.

The irritation in Arthur's tone comes as no surprise, as the blond man hunches himself onto the wooden stool in the kitchen. The grumpy attitude is expected, along with the rumpled-sweatshirt-he-apparently-slept-in look and a bedhead mess that… really isn't as unattractive as someone might think (and frankly, gives Merlin split-second flashbacks to sneaking into his king's chambers for whatever reason it was for Camelot's nightmarish disaster of the month, casting side-eye and discreet glances to the sleeping occupant of the four-poster bed).

A grumpy Pendragon should never be tussled with, even though Merlin never seemed to quite grasp the unspoken rule.

"Morning, sunshine," Merlin chirps from across the room, sounding a bit like _himself_ for once, despite the mood hanging over the other man. Arthur could never understand how anyone could be so bright in the morning, especially after drinking. Perhaps Merlin's used to it.

Arthur grimaces in response, a hand rising to cover his face as he slouches.

Merlin gestures to the pan of sizzling meat and eggs.

"I'm impressed, I'll admit it. The smell hasn't even made you a little dicky?" he asks.

A flash of green tinges Arthur's face. Breakfast would smell delicious at any other point of time, but his stomach roils.

He shoots Merlin a withering ' _What do you think_?' and the other man apparently takes it as all of the motivation he needs, flipping through some cabinet doors above the sink, perusing through a selection of herbs he kept in stock.

"If Gaius had been alive long enough for the existence of the patent office, he would have made a killing in instant remedial cures for hangovers." Merlin chose several of the miniature jars, getting out a bowl to crush and mix the herbs, spreading the chunky and brownish-green paste over the head of his spoon.

He has no idea what Merlin means by 'patent' or 'office' but Arthur grunts, staring distrustfully.

"Don't think about how it looks… just hold your nose and swallow," Merlin instructs, holding out that appalling spoonful, giving him a knowing smirk.

Arthur's nose crinkles but he sits up straighter, plucking it from Merlin's hand and shoving it past his lips.

Instantly, he regrets it.

His brow furrows in disgust, lips pressing thin, but Arthur forces it back, consuming the paste.

"Are you _trying_ to poison me?" he accuses, narrowing his eyes.

Decidedly, it isn't very kind to devil a man when he's barely seeing through the white noise in his head and very nauseated. Merlin takes back the spoon, raking his gaze over him. His smirk creases up.

"You'll feel better in a minute," he says with all the airs of someone with endless patience, tossing the item into the sink with a flick of his wrist. "Think of it as _all_ the payback for having me muck out your horses' stables."

Merlin's spatula from his cooking pan jabs a bit in Arthur's direction, as he punctuates his point without resentment, amused, "That was the stable-boy's job."

A chuckle rises out of Merlin.

"I told you you I wouldn't want to be anyone's servant in the next life, not that I don't have a next life—pretty sure there's only this one. _I_ , for one, like going to bed without smelling like horse dung and without having to use ice cold water and Gaius' steel tub. Y'know…"

Arthur rolls his eyes, tuning him out when Merlin's back faces him. _Fifteen hundred years_ and he's still complaining about his chores.

"— _Yes_ , but you earned those duties," Arthur interrupts, voice dripping with an overly pleasant disposition to conceal his sarcasm, even at Merlin's pointed look over his shoulder.

"If you don't want breakfast, then you can have the shower first."

Merlin nods to the hallway, looking back at the now fully cooked sausage and the egg. He switches off the hob, wiping his hands on his jeans and shuffling through some papers on the kitchen table. "Save some hot water—and don't go through the medicine cabinet just because it's there. It's a mess."

Thanks to the rather disgusting hangover remedy and their banter, Arthur thinks he can manage to put last night behind him, even if the tension still feels heavy. He glances down the hallway, listening to clues from Merlin as to what exactly he's talking about.

 _Shower_? Was that a new term for the bath?

Part of him almost came out to protest ( _You expect me to draw my own bath?_ ), but Arthur says nothing.

He has questions, yes, but the role of the clueless buffoon grows old fast. It's frustrating, not knowing half the things Merlin spoke of, but stubborn as he is—why admit to it?

"Yes, alright," Arthur drawls, shooting Merlin a bored, dismissive look before standing.

Out of the kitchen, his pace slows as he locates one of the few, unfamiliar doors. What he sees within is a room, not too big nor cramped, the floor tiled and cool to his bare feet as Arthur walks around it. There's what Merlin had explained as a _sink_ and _the loo_ —a rather unusual but convenient garderobe, he must admit—to its side, but what catches his attention that hadn't originally is the tall, filtered, glass door near the furthest wall.

It doesn't look like any bath, but the faint dripping noise suggests this must be _the shower_.

Arthur shakes his head, fingertips pinching the bridge of his nose. It's just another one of those moments where he needs to take in the realisation that everything is different.

He rummages one of the cupboards, pulling out a _towel_. There's a smaller cupboard above the sink, and he wonders if this is _the medicine cabinet_ Merlin called.

Arthur can see his reflection in the… _mirror_ covering it, and he gazes at it skeptically, fluffing his hair from his face.

There's no one to stop him, so Arthur opens the cabinet's door without hesitation.

It's a simple tug on the handle, and he examines its contents. Really—Merlin makes it sound like it's a _dangerous_ endeavor. All he sees is a couple of small white bottles and trinkets, an object that resembles a razor, and Arthur plucks it up to observe closer.

He quickly loses interest, and places it back in the scattered mess. But while doing so, Arthur's fingers accidentally bump and before he knows it, there's a chain reaction of falling.

Arthur manages to hastily apprehend two bottles, but most of the cabinet's objects end up on the floor, hitting the sink's edge along the way and creating more of a ruckus. He curses under his breath, going to his knees and picking them up, his jaw clenching when a knock sounds on the closed bathroom door.

" _What_ , Merlin? I can handle being alone in your damn _loo_ , believe it or not!" Arthur snaps without a real explanation, hands full and shoving bottles into the cabinet, cheeks heating.

Honestly.

*

The lighthearted humor in Merlin's eyes mask over with a stoic flatness, eclipsing away the bright colour in favour of detaching himself from the mixed emotions.

Merlin doesn't leave a final, dryly-witted remark to carelessly fling at Arthur's retreating figure, instead leaning and smoothing his pale hands against the crumpled newspaper in front of him.

Arthur didn't particularly act like he _cared_.

What _about_ … well, the list continues to grow. And he should amount that behaviour as it is: _An act_.

It's a way for Arthur to bury away the restlessness and dread and exorbitant sense of disillusionment.

Through years and years, with the unfailing bond of their company, Merlin could pinpoint every little habit, every facial tic indicating a change in manner, even now. Arthur was trying to _bury away_ something important. Something he wasn't quite ready to come to terms with. No doubt to do with the previous evening, and all its misfortunes and blessings.

The hairs on Merlin's arms prickle at the hazy, dreamy memories—Arthur's desperation laced in the clumsy, hushed kiss, and the wonder in his roaming, skin-hot touch.

His heart quickens.

A small hitch of breath collapses out of Merlin in an aggravated, growling sigh. Blimey, he was _pathetic_.

Merlin turns from the savoury, deliciously smelling breakfast, roughly scraping his fingers against his scalp and weighing his head down on his hand as he sinks into Arthur's warmed spot on the wooden stool. Socked feet pitching to the bottom rung. Fingers curling to the mug of hot water and tea made earlier, and by now lukewarm for consumption.

Even as a short-lived thought, Merlin had to wonder if… he should have explained what a "shower" meant.

Not that Arthur couldn't working out turning dials, or finding the bar of soap for himself (the toilet had been simple enough)… but not much of the bathroom of the modern age would look remotely _familiar_ to Arthur's old-world mindset, including the plumbing system.

He pulls himself from staring blankly at nothing, as Gaius mewls up at him. The same, loud ' _pay-attention-to-me-now_ ' tone, whiskers and nose twitching.

"What is it, chap? Hmm?"

Merlin scoots himself on the edge of the stool, doubling over to scoop the kitten into his hands. Several of Merlin's fingernails scratch bluntly behind a gold, furry ear.

"Are you hungry?"

Another meow.

Merlin takes it as a 'yes' and sets Gaius down on the floor. He fetches one of the two sausages from the pan, cutting them up into smaller pieces. As Merlin leaves the plate for him, watching with a faint smile as the feline curiously eyes the food and sniffs the air, what sounds like a muffled ruckus bursts from the hallway.

His smile drops away.

Of course it's the medicine cabinet. What on earth could have _possessed_ Merlin when he thought that, perhaps, Arthur could _listen_ to some sound advice?

Which leaves him no choice but to, by obligation alone, check on his house-guest.

Merlin's knuckles rap on the bathroom's door.

"Alright?"

" _What, Merlin? I can handle being alone in your damn loo, believe it or not!"_

He can practically hear the whining in Arthur's incredulous voice.

Merlin's eyes roll.

"Just checking," he says, sardonic in the forced-cheery reply.

*

Arthur grumbles to himself, dull nails on his cheek in attempt to cover up the embarrassed heat. Stupid.

He manages get the things back inside the deviled _medicine cabinet_ , shutting it. The endeavour has been much more problematic than Arthur anticipated. With annoyance, he realises he's going to have to be more careful—it won't be the last time Arthur wanted to investigated the cottage. No point denying that.

Merlin's left, he's sure, and now Arthur faces the task of the shower. Having a shower, or whatever.

(How difficult could it possibly be?)

With a short huff, Arthur decides to get it over with.

He reaches down, grabbing hold of the sweatshirt's hem and tugging the wrinkled fabric over his head. It drops into a limp pile on the floor, accompanied by the joggers and his undergarments. The exposure brings a shiver to Arthur's nerves, but ignores it and steps into the glass-shielded shower.

Once there, he examines the spacious area, as well as the metal piece hung down as a curve above his head. Arthur blinks at it, and then the dials attached on the wall below it.

His lips press together in a silent ' _what the damned_ -' and then, he grasps the left one.

Arthur feels it shift in his hand, giving him the impression he's meant to twist it, and so he does. The next thing he knows, there's a hiss coming directly above him, and the air blows as thin lines of water rain on him, dousing his head in a _freezing_ cold spray.

He jumps in place, one of Arthur's hands slamming into the glass, cursing. Arthur scrambles for the other dial—the one with a red **H** label—and ducking away from the cold water. He grimaces, arms curled to himself. When the air feels thicker, foggier, Arthur extends a hand to feel warm water trickling from the metal piece.

Arthur ducks back under the spray, teeth clanking, relieved.

It's better than any bath he remembers. The water pounds constantly against his head and the length of Arthur's naked back, loosening the tense knots he felt building. Arthur tilts his neck back, eyes falling closed as he scrubs at his entire face, pushing damp strings of blond hair away from his forehead.

He stays under the self-heating water for a little while, hands mapping his broad chest, attempting to rid the dirt and sweat on his body.

Arthur's fingers pause over a couple of his scars, but linger over Mordred's.

Or rather, the _lack_ of a scar where the enchanted sword had thrust with unforgiving force into him and _killed_ him.

His lower lip slid between his teeth, chewed on lightly. This is the only thing he finds disagreeable about the shower; it allows his mind to drift, which is unsafe in the time being.

Arthur sighs through his nose before removing his head from underneath the water so he could open his eyes. The soap bottles are easy to locate, and easy to read, thank god, and it's _nice_ to be able to rinse out all the lake grime from his scalp into the drain at his toes.

Finally, he recalls Merlin's request to save hot water for him—and understanding that making his last decision to ignore the last command was _disastrous_ —now is a good time to leave.

With a squeak and a jerk of Arthur's hand on the dials, the spray disappears.

"Interesting," he mutters, wiping off his face.

The towels aid him in drying off, rubbing one through his hair and then wrapping another to his waist.

Arthur picks up his clothes off the tiled floor and wonders if the new clothes are on the bed. They weren't the last time he looked. Merlin must have put them away. He readjusts his grip on the dark blue towel, exiting the bathroom. The temperature change is _dreadful_ , and Arthur fully intends on badgering Merlin to light a fire.

Towel now resting on his hip-line, Arthur's grasp on it loosens as he tucks the dirty clothes in the crook of his arm. Running a free hand into his wet mop of gold hair.

"Merlin," he calls, glancing into other rooms on his way to the kitchen. "My clothes, where did you throw them?"

They better not be _missing_.

*

When things quiet down to a normal settle, Merlin takes it as a sign of better luck, lifting his ear from pressing tightly against the bathroom door.

He doesn't need to meddle further, as the pipes rattle dully and the water switches on. The warlock shudders to himself as he treads into the parlour, picking up some logs near the fireplace and throwing them in. Merlin flicks his fingers outwards to the soot-encrusted hearth.

" _Forbearnan_ ," he whispers.

His very nerve-endings thrum with the dulcet, bone-deep pleasure of his magic surging through him. The fire born of it crackles to life, warming the room steadily. Verbalised spells, as he learned, dealt more with a singular focus than for multiple actions needed or the unrestrained might of emotions.

Merlin doesn't hurry his wandering, ending up back in the kitchen and snatching the empty plate off the floor. At his feet, Gaius licks at his chops, seeming satisfied with the impromptu meal, and nudges Merlin's ankles with clear affection before padding out.

"You're welcome," Merlin says after him, smiling close-lipped as he tidies up. Yesterday's newspaper thrown out. Merlin's grease-spotted plate soaking in running sink water.

He scrapes a hunk of scrambled egg right off the pan, chewing thoughtfully on the bland flavour as Merlin sorts the rest of the papers.

His right hand stills over a flier.

One that he… doesn't remember receiving. Merlin frowns, reading over the fancy lettering printed across the front: _**Albion's Return**_.

A morsel of sticky, hardened egg sucks into his windpipe as he coughs noisily on it, cheeks puffing, and bangs on his sternum. In his brief arm-flail, Merlin's maroon-coloured mug sends itself crashing onto the kitchen floor, shattering into wet pieces. His head jerks round when a toweled Arthur enters, searching adamantly for his new clothes.

Arthur's eyebrows shoot up, with a half-worried, half-incredulous look of ' _what the hell is matter with you, and am I going to have to stop you from choking_ '.

Now able to manage a voice, lungs heaving with small gasps, Merlin rasps, hand massaging his throat, "—god, what is it?"

"My _clothes_."

"They're in the drawers, where they're supposed to be."

At the curt response, Arthur seems to huff. "It's not as if I know what you would do with them," he retorts, dubious.

Merlin sends a silent, outright 'duh' glance.

He scrambles down to pick up the broken mess of his mug.

"… You'll find the clean pants there, too— _aah_ —!" Merlin winces, nicking his finger. He draws the bloody finger into his mouth, brow furrowed, and sipping around the digit.

The pieces land in the trash, leaving the cold puddle of tea behind. Merlin avoids the other man's eyes, rushing around him and for the foggy bathroom, banging the door shut.

He slumps against the door, a weak cough slipping free, mouth tasting heavy like the coppery tinge of his blood. Oh hell.

Oh _hell_ indeed.

Merlin's saliva-wrinkled finger withdraws from the seal of his lips, as he examines the weeping gash running along the length of it. It's deep, but not enough for a stitch or two. (Not for the likes of him.) But it's plenty ugly to stare at.

Come to think of it, Arthur didn't appear surprised at the show of clumsiness, but slightly bothered by the choking fit.

Probably thought Merlin couldn't hold his breakfast either.

Merlin heaves off the door quickly, twisting the brass rap, methodically washing disinfected hand-soap over the wound and rubbing it with towel. The surface of his hands tingle, like a warm, buzzing itch, as if his skin wishes to creep right off. The sensation began when Merlin's hand touched the colour-saturated, printed flier sitting innocently on his table.

_Albion's Return?_

Right, okay. Coincidence. Had to be.

Merlin shakes his head. No, no, he knows better. Destiny has a way of tampering and weaving its way straight through his choices, even after the fall of Camelot. Destiny controls every possible outcome. Arthur had been _meant_ to return—to unite the lands. Maybe the flier had been meant to _be_ there.

But it's a rubbish faire… what does that have to do with anything…?

While he zones out, it doesn't register that Merlin already shed his clothes—puddling together on the moisture-damp bathmat—and grasps sluggishly at the drippy shower stall to get in. Merlin's own hand casts a squeaking, sloppy hand-print to the opposite side of the glass, nearly mirroring Arthur's fogging away from existence.

A cascade of water spills onto Merlin's shoulders and the dip of his back, leaving him to emit a long, happy groan through his nose at the pressure. Blue eyes lull closed, as Merlin inclines to the shower, his eyelashes dripping wet when he rights himself.

Arthur _succeeded_ in resisting the temptation of stealing all the hot water for himself? Would miracles truly never cease?

He stands there unmoved, silently enjoying the rising heat and cleansing nature of water, before grabbing a mini green bar of soap.

Suds rinse away, trailing down Merlin's scrawny legs and into the drain, where he not-so-gently scrapes the bar against his arms, his ribcage and his abdomen, and wherever he can reach.

By the looks of it, the shampoo and conditioner bottles have been put to use. Merlin wouldn't put it past Arthur to divulge his curiosity about modern grooming and why the hell it was so important whether or not you could wash with 'colour-treated' or pH-balanced'.

Merlin holds back a breathy laugh, lips twitching.

Arthur with his hair an utter eyesore, gold strands sticking out like cowlicks as his friend had threaded his fingers through his soaked hair, with a deeply impatient look on his face while they were in the kitchen.

Couldn't even think to look in Merlin's room for the new clothes—out of sheer laziness, he expects.

Arthur's skin had the appearance of rosy flushing, no doubt to do with the temperature of shower water, covering the tops of his shoulders, on his neck and cheeks. On the flat of his sternum dusting with fine, but slightly darker, curlique-hairs than on his head. Despite the passage of time, Arthur was still all muscles and gold, summer skin. He carried a warrior's lithe with his movements. It brought nostalgia worming into Merlin's stomach, and it still does now.

The warlock bites down on the inside of his mouth, hard enough to feel a twinge of pain when his blood rushes and _rushes_ , pulsing his cock and stirring it to life. Merlin finally does laugh.

He swore he _wouldn't_ start composing poetry about Arthur.

This is getting out of hand fast.

Rinsing out the lightweight foam of shampoo out of his dark locks, Merlin switches off the water, stepping out of the stall and toweling himself dry. He prefers his showers at least a half an hour, but not with company present. (Not that company ever calls.)

The ache in his cut finger dulls. With a hasty glance down at it, Merlin finds the skin healed over with only a thin, white scar in its place.

Immortality has its advantages, especially in the simplest of injuries. He has not healed so rapidly in his younger years, and Merlin expects the growing magical involvement had a hand in this development.

His hands span for his clothes when it strikes him that Merlin had not grabbed fresh ones.

Hoping Arthur is already dressed, he clutches a towel around himself and retreats to his bedroom. No one present, though some of Merlin's clothes had been scattered out the drawers—out of their neat and folded arrangements.

"Prat," he mutters like a curse under his breath, shoving them back.

*

As soon as Merlin vanished, Arthur rubs at his face, forcibly shaking his head before searching for what he needed.

The patter of rain still echoes overhead, but it's lulling rhythm and a simple background noise.

He rediscovers Merlin's bedroom and pulls at his cupboard— _drawers_ to inspect them. Arthur's towel drops carelessly onto the floor, as he tugs on a pair of undergarments and breeches— _trousers_. The strange drag of the cloth, of the denim cause him to frown.

He digs around some more, tossing less attractive shirts away until Arthur decides on a dark grey one, pulling it over his head and feeling it snug against his chest.

His hip knocks into a bedside table, wincing him up and gritting his teeth.

Arthur mutters venomously at it, eyeing the piece of furniture.

Something _glints_ within the small, cracked drawer.

He doesn't move for a long moment, mind racing as Arthur contemplates if what he's seeing _is_ truly what he believes it to be.

His hand reaches in, bumping the drawer further open.

Arthur's breath dies in his throat when the familiar, metal brooch comes into view. It's worn, as if handled and touched many times without a clean. Arthur knows the look well seeing it dulled often as a child and he had felt the need to carry it.

His mother's symbol, her crest, even if thinned—it's the _same_ as he remembers.

Arthur studies it, lips parting slightly as the brooch turns over in his hands.

Merlin has kept it.

After all this time, and all the centuries when he gave this item to Merlin—since his death, Merlin still had it in his possession, right next to his bed.

Arthur can't explain the tightness in his throat, and he doesn't know when his feet began moving. He's back in the parlour, to the fire crackling nearby. Arthur blinks, eyes gazing up.

Having the brooch against his skin feels a little bit more like _home_.

"Merlin," he calls out, but this time without impatience.

" _Yeh, yeh!"_

Arthur's legs bend, his weight dropping to the edge of the couch as his fingertips trace over the smoothed, aged lines of silver.

So far, the only things left of his old life were his memories and Merlin. Seeing this, touching, holding it, is a reminder he desperately needed. This isn't all some nightmare, that much is confirmed, and while Arthur feels more comfortable with the brooch in his hands—this is just another reminder.

It's difficult. Merlin is still so much the same, despite the brooding and other elements that stuck out sorely, despite… the _secrets_.

Merlin's here, but nothing else of their past.

Only him and now the brooch.

It looks _exactly the same_ as it had when Arthur passed it off into Merlin's waiting hands.

Arthur's lips press together, the apple of his throat clenching as he releases a breath through his nose. There are lucid moments where he expects a door to open and for a counsellor or one of his knights to step inside, looking to report back from patrol. _God_. His bright blue eyes force shut, before opening again and he grips on the cold object like a life-line.

It's not _just_ him, is it?

Merlin has been through this as well.

Alive, as these centuries— _magic has done this? how?_ —and without companionship. _Merlin_ : annoyingly lighthearted and optimistic, charismatic, people-person Merlin, who has been subjected to facing the world on his own. The thought unsettles Arthur more than he expects.

He hardly recognises anything in Merlin's home. Nothing left of the days of Camelot.

Except this item, something Arthur has treasured for years.

Relief surges through him, and the faith restored in the fact he gave it to the _right_ person. Not that there had been any doubt in his mind in the first place.

*

Merlin huffs for breath, his white undershirt-collar damp to the back of his neck underneath the solid navy-blue hoodie. He avoids skidding on the balls of his heels, as Merlin makes a mad dash for where Arthur waits on the settee, sending him such a grave expression.

"What is it, Arth—?"

Merlin's eyes widen, shocked, as a hand gestures out with Ygraine's brooch.

"So you do remember this, do you." It's a statement, really, but one laced with faint confusion. "I'm surprised you managed to hang onto this."

For a moment, it truly looks as if Arthur processes just how displaced he is in his reality, and taking it not so well. The hunched shoulders. The shudder in his breath. The dismayed, visible haunt in Arthur's eyes as he slouches on Merlin's ratty settee and knuckles his mother's memory. Like a drowning man would to a raft in the middle of an unforgiving sea.

He knuckles it as Merlin had knuckled it on sleepless nights.

For days and days, thumbing the ridges and memorizing its shape without a glance, pressing it against his lips to taste the cold, bitter metal. Over time, he would restore it with a flick of his own magic, to its original form— _just as_ Arthur had given it.

Merlin takes a step towards him, keeping his voice low in reassurance, "I would have never parted with it. I kept some things, from back then. Things that may have not been missed if anyone cared to look for them." Merlin's pale, tightened mouth lifts up at the corners, revealing fondness. "A spell-book… a rabbit foot… Sir Gwaine's necklace… the"

An idea prickles at him, so suddenly, and the words fly out of Merlin so fast that they jumble up, " _WaitthereIllbeback_ —"

He flees the parlour, disregarding any bewilderment or irritated protest from Arthur, returning to his bedroom.

The wardrobe-doors fold open with a harsh, clanging force when Merlin waves his hands at them with a complicated wrist-gesture. He crawls in, the pair of skinny jeans already ripped on Merlin's knees. Merlin roots through the stacks of boxes in the dusty, shadowy corner. Finally, finally the one Merlin desires to find is there—a medium-sized, ivory box.

Unremarkable in weight, sidings carved intricately, but more _precious_ than any ordinary person can comprehend.

The box hums warningly against the surface of Merlin's fingers.

" _Líese_."

It unlatches with a click! and the _buzzing_ of restrictive magic fades. Merlin's heart pounds.

He scrambles back onto his feet, hurrying out.

Busy rummaging through the ivory box, Merlin does not meet Arthur's eyes as he stops in front of the other man waiting for an explanation. Arthur's eyebrows pinch together in contemplation, but when Merlin seems to be preparing none, he grunts.

Merlin sets down the box with its square lid hanging open, its interior pillowed with garnet red satin, beside Arthur's cushion. He clears his throat softly, cradling the gold, chunky ring between his index finger and thumb. A bit of usual shyness inching over him.

"I believe this… well, it belongs to you," he says, not waiting for Arthur's permission before clasping his left hand. "Camelot may not be a place to return to, and I can't pretend that I understand fully what you're going through," Merlin slips the tarnished royal seal over Arthur's large knuckle, a warmth inside him swelling up unnecessarily proud, "but I can't imagine a soul on this earth who deserves this more, Arthur."

Any words beginning to form on Arthur's lips pass invisibly. Speechless, he gazes down at the crest—the very same _tattooed_ now on Merlin's back.

Finally, brighter blue eyes look at Merlin before the tiniest, grateful smile appears on Arthur's mouth.

He clenches his fist slowly, and releases, getting used to the feeling of the ring.

"Thank you, Merlin."

Merlin returns the grin from Arthur, feeling it come as easily as anything, vividly striking a glee to Merlin's features.

Words can't begin to explain how much it means to him in having Arthur accept his own personal item, testing its weight before deeming it satisfactory. To get a glimpse of his sincerity.

"That has to be the third or fourth nicest thing you've said to me in two days," Merlin says, ribbing him despite the cherished moment just shared. His cheeks hurt a little from how hard he grins. "I'm afraid of what will spoil my luck now, honestly."

Arthur bursts out in a laugh, the noise almost surprising him himself and tries to cover it up by rolling his eyes.

"Don't get used to it," he says, dismissively. "I'm bound to run out of nice things to say sometime soon."

It's something _wonderful_ to behold, to listen for, Arthur's laughter—rich and loud, warm and boisterous in its tone as it rumbles up from his throat. It could once fill every space of an empty chamber in the Citadel or any marble-carved hall. And now it's left to only fill the empty, isolated spaces of Merlin's heart.

Even if the usual, brassy and cocky attitude had to follow, to defuse the more pronounced emotions from showing.

Merlin wouldn't have expected any less, or thought of it any little in its wonder. His cottage had… never been graced with the joyful sounds of laughter. Not ever.

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back to the updates! :) Thanks for hanging in there. I got really sick in the last week and it's been, and still is, terrible so any encouragement or kindness is appreciated. I hope you all keep loving this.
> 
> I'd like to thank my two darling betas and everyone who has supported me as well as my Britpick [ememmyem](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ememmyem/pseuds/ememmyem) who saved my neck. And most importantly, half of this fic wouldn't exist without [marlena_darling](http://archiveofourown.org/users/marlena_darling/pseuds/marlena_darling) and I wanna say thank you for taking this journey with me and you've been a best friend to me. I love you lots and this is ours.
> 
> (Future rating as chapters appear will jump to "Explicit" for sexual/violent content and more warnings/tags to be added.)

 

 

 

As he steps away from bumping Arthur's knees, Merlin's foot nudges the small, red scarf on the stone-floor where it had been left in the groggy and reluctant morning. Merlin snatches it up on an unguided instinct, faithfully tying the scarf in place round his neck and tucking in the frayed ends.

Feeling it _right_ to do so.

"How's your head, by the way? I haven't seen you running to the loo yet." Merlin cants his head a moment as he asks, curiously, "Think you can try eating again?"

"Fine," Arthur says, and looks like he means it.

Merlin's hands absently smooth over his woolen scarf, his eyes observing Arthur's eyes drifting over Merlin's neck. The other man can't very well hide the appreciative nature in his stare, and Merlin's smile softens a bit with aching muscles thankful for it. Of course it makes sense. Arthur has been so used to seeing old-fashioned attire. That's likely why he chose it.

"And I can," he confirms to Merlin.

Arthur's hand tightens up on the sigil, as he stands with a hand planted on the sofa cushion.

That's when Merlin notices how Arthur's legs stiffen under his own weight. Without realising he had, Merlin lurches forward, clasping firmly to Arthur's elbow to steady him upright.

"Easy now," he murmurs, using a kind of gentle voice, one might use on a injured animal. His gestures are kind but Arthur mutters a frustrated protest, wrenching away. Arthur's stomach produces a gurgle, faint but audible, and Merlin meets his gaze knowingly, fingers empty of their cradle.

Arthur gestures with the brooch. "It's yours—I don't want to carry it around."

"… I appreciate it." Pushing off his hesitancy, perhaps thinking Arthur _needed_ it more than him, Merlin quickly pockets the item. "But you're keeping the ring," he adds, sternly.

"Well, it is after all _mine_."

His skin mourns the loss of heat, Merlin's fingers clenching in as Arthur leaves for the hallway, steadier.

"I hope your cooking has improved over the years!" Arthur calls ahead of him.

Merlin's blue eyes roll in annoyance.

 _Oh_ , so that's how it's going to be, is it…

He squares his shoulders, neck flexing.

"Of course, milord. Whatever you say, milord," Merlin grumbles, heading to the kitchen as well, including a sarcastic expression. "I'm just a simple bumpkin living in the middle of nowhere … it's not like I spent the ten years prior to two thousand wandering the earth _cooking your damn meals in the woods_ , or anything…"

Feeling a pinch too thorny to concentrate on using magical commands, and not in the mood to repair a thoroughly demolished cupboard door, Merlin pays no attention to his companion leaning over the table-top. He scrapes away the cold, hardened mess of scrambled egg off his pan, right into the rubbish. The pan bangs into the sink, perhaps unnecessary rough. Merlin then grabs the oak-wood larder door, jerking it open.

"You haven't tried these yet."

He tosses the container of jam doughnuts towards Arthur. Merlin prepares two glasses of milk and orange juice for them, his jaw relaxing.

Arthur's voice rises in the background, curiously. " _What is this_ —?"

When Merlin glances up blankly, finally to him, the colourful flier from earlier is being examined with one of Arthur's ' _the hell_ ' faces. Merlin's eyes fix down on the written words and a shiver he can't place crawls up his back.

Interpreting it as 'no-not-good-bad-very-bad', the warlock nearly throws himself across from him, slapping a hand over the flier's edge.

"Nothing, nothing at all," he says in casual protest, tugging with his fingers against Arthur's hold, but finding it unsuccessful.

" _Renaissance_ …" Arthur murmurs to himself.

"Listen, don't—"

But, by then, it's too late.

Arthur's pale blue eyes widen on the bold print: **Albion's Return! Join us for our Renaissance faire!**

He lifts his head. "Merlin," Arthur says, slow and deliberate. "You said Camelot was gone."

"It is, it—"

"You said the world had forgotten."

" _Yes_ , but—"

He reads back the title, finger tapping sharply, not pulling his bewildered stare from Merlin.

"If it truly has, then how can this be?" Arthur tells him. " _When_ I return? Do you have an answer for that?" It's a mind-spinning experience, but the first thing Arthur feels is excitement. Camelot. Albion—where the five realms ruled together.

But it is exactly what Merlin is trying to avoid. That spark of unabashed hope in Arthur's eye, at the mere mention of his kingdom. Of finding some way to restore what had once been so great. He knows Arthur would go through hell and high water to summon the remaining heirs and revive the fallen city— _nothing but ashes and dry grass; everyone is dead, dead_ —

He can't have Arthur clinging too tightly to the old ways, old memories. No shielding himself away from the inevitability and the cold plunge of realism.

Merlin's face cringes, lips thinning when he hears the stubborn acknowledgment of his name.

"Arthur," he repeats back dolefully, with his fingers clawing still onto the glossy flier. _God_ , he doesn't want to do this.

"It's a faire," Merlin explains softly, eyes cast down. "Two towns over. People… they wear the costumes and do the sword-fighting and drink ale, but it's only pretend to them."

_Costumes?_

He doesn't understand the expression on Merlin's face. He was the one who spoke of fate, who mentioned his return being a long time coming. How can this be any different? Arthur's stomach feels heavy, as Merlin uses that _damned_ voice—the one he's been hearing since the woods. Like he's missing something, just a _child_ learning everything for the first time.

"The modern age doesn't believe Camelot is real."

Arthur's fingers clench before releasing the flier.

It's _impossible_.

Merlin chances a glance at him, throat clutching. Camelot had been Arthur's legacy, a great kingdom in its prime and on the verge of change. Knowing it had been lost in between the lines of myth and history is… _devastating_ is not the word that even starts to cover it.

"Some do," Merlin adds, hurriedly. "They do. Scholars and medieval enthusiasts have done so much—well, some of the history is absolutely rubbish—but believing in magic … the majority can't believe in such impossibilities without seeing it with their own eyes."

Teeth flash out, worrying over Merlin's bottom lip. His fingers nudge against Arthur's fingertips lightly, as they grow slack against the table's top.

"I'm sorry. I didn't lie. Camelot's time has passed," he rasps. "Albion is what we call Great Britain. We're here. There's still a monarchy, but a Parliament as well—"

"— _How_ could they not know?" Arthur snaps before he can stop himself, eyes flickering up. There's a boiling anger there, pent up frustration. He swallows it down. "Merlin, Camelot was the greatest kingdom to reign in the land. Even now it can't be only a myth. How do they not know about magic?"

He pauses, jaw steeling.

"It's timing. It has to be," Arthur says disbelieving, motioning to the annual renaissance flier. "You can't tell me it happens often, and now, when I am here?"

Merlin shakes his head and mumbles, "I-I thought maybe it was—"

 _Coincidence_.

Merlin's hands begin tingling again, the warm, buzzing itch spreading against his palms to the surface of colourful paper. And he lets go of the flier as if it has purposely electrocuted him, hands seizing themselves, eyebrows knitted as he stares down at it.

Arthur's voice had risen in outrage, as he spoke of the non-existent certainty of magic the world had to offer now, and it was unfair and cruel how much his dear friend doesn't _understand_. How much Merlin _wants_ him to understand.

Heat travels up Merlin's neck, to his cheeks. He impulsively grinds his teeth. The blue of his eyes dark with self-resentment.

_How could they not know?_

"Because **I** was the one who made it so!"

Silence permeates the air between both men, thick and choking. Merlin's breathes puncture it, coming in, coming out hard and fast from his opening mouth.

"Magic had to stay hidden. I let legends remain legends; after Camelot's fall, the people…" he croaks the last few words, shoulders shuddering a moment. A wet gleam to Merlin's eyes.

He offers a melancholy, pained smile. Bitter in its masque of forced emotion. "They feared what they couldn't understand, Arthur. They began hunting us again."

"You weren't there for them in 1515. The Protestants… going round, thumping their Bibles and religion and scaring all the villagers. They were hunting others to _blame_ for their problems—not real magic. I was unlucky when I was being careful. Ended up disguising myself as an old crone and got tied to a stake with some kindling. They burned me alive—"

The confession slips out from Merlin's lips.

Even if the torchfire had not been magical, it had been a slow, _agonizing_ burning, taking hours.

It ate away the tatters of his clothes, at Merlin's flesh, and at his loud cries when the flames finally taken it, consuming him whole. He felt every inch of it, had been awake for each smoke-blinding and white-hot second. There was no mercy in fainting.

Fire was supposed to annihilate even the most powerful ranking of enchantresses and warlocks, as far as he had known then. _Monster_ , a monster, echoing in his ears.

Merlin rubs at his scarfed neck, recalling with a dim, vacant tone, "It might have not helped my cause when I stood up for the women accused. It was madness and no one could see that. But they got away from the village and the mobs with their families. That's all that mattered."

"Not me."

The faraway daze in Merlin's eyes ebbs, fading off when he concentrates on Arthur's own solemn blue. A gentler, benevolent blue. Like water, cooling, dousing the painful memory.

*

By then, all Arthur can do is watch the crumbling wreck he caused.

His temples drum on occasion, his mouth dry. The way Merlin's words falter… there's a resigned slump in his shoulders, but it becomes all that more difficult when Arthur notices the glassy look accompanied by a smile that looks so out-of-place on Merlin. When he mentions 'hunting', Arthur's pinched expression slowly blanks, and he simply listens.

That's all he can do now—Arthur listens to him, pale blue eyes focused entirely on the other man.

Merlin's story holds the air of bad news even in the beginning, but the more he reveals, the more Arthur finds himself dreading where it's heading.

_They burned me alive._

If the alcohol hasn't done the trick of making him fall ill, Arthur's sure this does.

His stomach knots, and a chill encompasses his body. It runs up and down his arms in waves, hairs prickling. Merlin, his Merlin, had been forced to endure a fate he knew to be one of the more prolonged forms of torment before death. At least in the mighty Camelot, his father had the decency… to end any suffering or sentence quickly.

Arthur ducks his head, not trusting himself to look at Merlin. The absence in his voice, the dark eyes—it isn't like him. Not the Merlin he had known.

No, this Merlin has been through so much more since Arthur's time, and the thought tugs mercilessly at his heart. Arthur rubs at the bridge of his nose, pinching his eyes together shut in attempt to collect himself before glancing back at Merlin.

He wouldn't look again again, not at Merlin's deep-seated pain. Those eyes should be full of light, compassion, _happiness_.

"Merlin," he says, the name leaving him softly, without pretense because Arthur has nothing to say. What can you say to that?

Arthur wants to reach out, to inspect, to touch and shroud him from harm. Merlin had been merely a boy, if not annoyingly charismatic and troublesome. A lowborn manservant in the glow of Arthur's memories, an _innocent_ thing.

He is _furious_ this has happened to Merlin. No one had been around to _protect_ him.

Arthur certainly hadn't.

He doesn't ask Merlin how he survived the fire. He assumes magic played a part, and while it was the cause of the problem, Arthur is thankful for it saving Merlin's life and restoring him.

"It's not as though magic isn't used anymore," Merlin explains, his chest no longer heaving.

Merlin's anxious hand lowers back down, in his lap.

"It's more spiritual now," he explains. "Wicca and healers, believing in the elements and goddesses. There's faith in herbal medicine and meditation. And it's not as though Camelot is gone forever. Even if the modern age doesn't believe it had been a real place, they believe in the stories told about you and… your courage. The goodness in your heart."

The name of his kingdom brings a sense of warmth to Arthur's chest.

He sucks in air, tightly.

Merlin leans forward, saying earnestly, unable to rid of the awed murmur even if he had been aware of it, "And you have no idea how _important_ you are."

Arthur somehow doubts the validity, but smiles, faintly and appreciatively in the corners of his mouth.

A familiar quirk of Merlin's lips. He grasps onto the table-edge, and then motions for Arthur to follow him.

"I've got something to show you."

It's like shaking off a daze, but Arthur pulls himself upright, out of their conversation.

He wishes he was more able to keep up with the change of pace the other man is capable of, or at least could pretend. There's no way. He could not push the image of Merlin, tied in place and surrounded by black, billowing smoke and flame, out of his mind. Nor the sickening thought that if Merlin had been found out earlier in their lives, as a practicing sorcerer, he might have not escaped a similar fate.

He never liked it. While his father and his king insisted that it was necessary, needing to execute those wielding the dangerous phenomenon that was _magic_ , Arthur sought no pleasure in their death. He had not experienced the same sense of closure afterward. Not even after receiving his father's crown.

Blue eyes stay locked on Merlin in the corridor, ahead of him, watching pale fingers trail along the wall as Merlin's shoulders clench in.

What else happened to him? How much more had Merlin endured during his time—was the fire even the worst of it?

The longer Arthur remains, the more he glimpses this new era, he starts to realize it's not just the culture that has changed. It has weathered down on _Merlin_ as well.

Merlin did not deserve the burdens put upon him, and Arthur's once more reminded that he had left what he was meant to protect. Camelot vanished into the slipping cracks of time, his friends, his regency and counsel, his loved ones too. And now, Merlin has been left to fend for himself when Arthur had been meant to keep him out of harm.

Still, he thinks Merlin has done his best—if anything at all.

*

Merlin shouldn't have opened his gob like that.

He shouldn't have let such vulnerable details about centuries ago, that no longer mattered in the grand scheme, be spoken. It allowed Arthur to see the fragmented, hurting soul beneath the sometimes genuine, sometimes impassive mask. But once the wound had reopened, Merlin couldn't raise a hand to stop it, the gush of despair or vulnerability.

Arthur had been left shaken in its wake, not disclosing this with words ( _words_ , all these words were always getting Merlin into trouble), but in his actions. In the compliant act of sitting in silence, listening and touching his face in agitation, bowing his head to not meet Merlin's eyes.

Because he couldn't _face_ what Merlin had become. Arthur didn't need to say it. He wasn't how _Merlin_ was supposed to be.

 _Merlin_ was supposed to be unafraid—a chatterbox with a heart of gold and a friendly grin, housing in himself an outrageously defiant and good-hearted temperament.

This stranger just wore Merlin's skin, stretched two sizes too-tight, and a heart too damaged to feel sanguine or heartened during difficult moments.

But he's _trying_ to be Merlin. _Arthur's_ Merlin. The Merlin waiting for his king's return from Avalon, ready to be at his side once again.

That has to mean _everything_ , doesn't it…?

The first two fingers of Merlin's left hand stroke along the hallway wall, dragging slightly as Merlin heads for the opposite end of the cottage. He's assured by the heavy sounds of footsteps behind him. The rain outside batters the sides of his home, streaking the windows, thunder rumbling low in the distance.

"In here," he says.

Both of Merlin's hands yank at oak, double doors leading to his personal library. The atmosphere inside has the dry, peppery odor of aged paper. Something Merlin enjoyed. On one wall, unlike the other three arranged flat as any other, the last wall stood tall with a half-moon shape.

"All of these books are about us, Arthur. Every record I could gather, every theory, every fantastical story about your life and its history."

Arthur halts, staring up at the huge and impressive stack.

"Strangers have written them?" he asks.

Merlin nods.

"How many?"

"Countless."

He turns on his heel to Arthur, hands clasping behind him, before that wall, looking over his head with a tilted chin at the rows and rows of dusty, shabby books.

"I doubt anyone has this large of a private collection," Merlin observes, almost boastfully.

Arthur's eyes widen in their sockets, as he circles where he is, perhaps to take a broader scope of all he stares at in the room. Though nothing would have prepared him for the gravity, Merlin supposes. Merlin had been given the time and luxury of watching them accumulate slowly, and Arthur does not share this.

(Many of the records and fictionalized accounts are _misinformed_ and altogether wrong about factual information about Camelot and Arthur's reign. But beggars couldn't be choosers.)

Merlin's eyes flare gold, a split-second, as one of the heftier, leather-bound tomes removes itself from its proper slot, landing into his outstretched hands.

"This one, however…"

He presents it to Arthur, exposing the gold, glinting lettering. "This is the only one of its making."

The name ' _Emrie Uhas_ ' exposes scripted on the spine of the tome, and beneath the titling. The same name Merlin had given the woman in the shop.

"Every truth I've kept from you… every moment of my life entering Camelot until I left the city is here." Merlin's long fingers clutch nervously, as he breathes, "Take it… please…"

As the leathered, worn book passes between them, Arthur's thumb soothes over the ' _Uhas_ ' unconsciously, as Merlin's eyes trace its movement.

_Emrie Uhas._

It's clever, not in a self-assessing way. Merlin has not heard anyone say ' _Emrys_ ' to him in ages, quite literally. The Druids, what was left of them, kept to other parts of Europe as he understood it, and would not recognize his power through his wards and shields.

Of course he's nervous. Merlin isn't about to hang around for the memories, not even the first chapter Arthur undoubtedly would start with. For the fond reminiscence of a boy Merlin no longer knew.

So much information would be hard to process. Some Arthur might consciously feel anger towards. Merlin's gut feels hot and heavy, swooping up.

"Are you sure?"

"As I'll ever be," Merlin replies, ignoring the concern, and leveling a pointed gaze to Arthur. "I just… need you to remember something first."

His hand fists itself, hesitant in its decision, and he swallows tersely.

Merlin then holds out his arm, touching one of Arthur's biceps with a friendly, rushed squeeze. The grimness and sense of age from Merlin's features drifting off, and without his permission, it's replaced with keenness and the boundless devotion he had shown as a bumbling fool.

"Everything I've done… I've done to protect you, and help you, Arthur. For us to unite the lands and see you be king. That's what I wanted out of the years we had together."

Fingers slip away, and Merlin's lips part, releasing a sigh.

He steps back dutifully, inclining his head.

"Take your time," Merlin says, walking around the other man.

*

He won't open the book if Merlin changes his mind.

It's slowly become heavy in his hands, and the realisation of what the pages held—is no more lighter. Arthur wants to know, does he _ever_ , but this is Merlin's. It's his life, his thoughts, everything that had occurred in the years between them. Anything personal Arthur had not known would be here. Arthur would know it—and that took a _great_ deal of trust.

Blue eyes continue to stare into Merlin's, for an answer as the other twists his hands. The one he receives is not definite or confident, and it'll have to do.

Arthur's eyebrows rise, and he waits, for Merlin stepping forward and touching his arm before Arthur's aware he's on edge, shivering.

"I'll keep that in mind," he murmurs, sucking in a quiet breath.

Merlin drifts back, turns, leaves, and then he's alone. The silence of the room looms, and the sound of his exhale startles Arthur from looking at the doors Merlin vanished behind. Arthur's eyes gaze down on the tome, and his hands knuckle it.

There's no point putting it off any longer.

He locates an oversized chair in the right-hand corner, soft grey light from the window casting in through the rain. Arthur settles, flipping open the cover until it's there.

_The very beginning._

At first, the stories need for him to grow accustomed to them. Memories in some places are faint, and from Merlin's perspective, far different from how he remembers. What's obvious is that Merlin believed him to be an utter prat.

Arthur takes offense at first, lips pulling into a stubborn frown.

He hadn't been that bad; Merlin was _exaggerating_ as he had a tendency to do so.

Then, the story hits the moment that changed it all. The first moment when Merlin had gotten in the way of the blade, had saved Arthur's life. The first of many, as it seems. But by magic. He isn't sure how long he ends up reading; Arthur's swept into the words and the memories.

His first surprise acknowledges the Great Dragon.

Merlin had been drawn to him— _Kilgharrah_ , the beast had a name—and had been drawn to the caves to seek council with him. To speak to a _dragon_.

Arthur's tempted to call Merlin back, demand he explains himself, but instead he keeps reading. The Great Dragon had been the one who told Merlin of his destiny. A destiny that involved he and Merlin from the start.

Destiny had been a constant subject, but now it seems there's been more.

Lancelot, and the trials involving their meeting (A gryffin—honestly, Merlin). Soon enough, the focus directs to a certain meeting, one he has not forgotten.

_Mordred._

The gilded tome shuts quickly against Arthur's fingers still curled within the pages.

He remembers the betrayal of Morgana in attempt to save the boy, and his own protests to see an innocent child die. He had only seen this as Morgana's kindness, her caring nature that in the end had been diminished to ashes until her last days.

Arthur reopens it, ignoring the stab of reluctance in his chest, flipping another page.

The Great Dragon mentioned again, and this time a prophecy is spoken that chills him.

The dragon claimed that Mordred would be the one to kill Arthur, and that Merlin should not save the boy. That's why Merlin had been late to meet them in the dungeon. He had been _conflicted_.

Even then, their fate had been sealed. _He_ – Arthur – had sealed his own fate.

After a moment of consideration, Arthur does not chuck the tome away. He continues to read, the heaviness consuming him.

*


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm feeling SO much better, darlings. ♥ ♥ No more bloodwork, no more terrible pain in my body. And everyone's been so kind and patient, thank you. This update is a little sluggish in tone, and discusses things we know in show, but I promise you a faster pace and satisfying your curiosities in the next chapter. :) 
> 
> I'd like to thank my two darling betas and everyone who has supported me as well as my Britpick [ememmyem](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ememmyem/pseuds/ememmyem) who saved my neck. And most importantly, half of this fic wouldn't exist without [marlena_darling](http://archiveofourown.org/users/marlena_darling/pseuds/marlena_darling) and I wanna say thank you for taking this journey with me and you've been a best friend to me. I love you lots and this is ours.
> 
> (Future rating as chapters appear will jump to "Explicit" for sexual/violent content and more warnings/tags to be added.)

*

 

With the quietly drawn breathes from Arthur's lips, and the weight of acceptance in his shoulders, Merlin knows it's time to leave him.

In deliberate, hurried strides out, he shuts the oak doors to the library. Unable to hear Arthur settling in for the inevitable, long read, for him getting comfortable with the book on a tweed-lined chaise lounge. A part of him dreads Arthur knowing _all_ … and wanting to retract the invitation of settling into Merlin's most personal narrative.

He would not withhold the truth from him. There would be no more lies.

Merlin lifts his chin derisively, willing his hand to release the brass doorknob.

And stories would unfold in Arthur's mind, little things he had not known about Merlin—saving Gaius' life upon their first meeting, the constant, irritating struggle with verbal magical commands, and how Merlin's close bond with Gwen had been kindled tenderly at an early age.

That the enchanted dagger Merlin pulled Arthur away from would be the _first_ stepping stone towards their friendship, their intertwined destiny of Camelot and Albion, and Arthur's terrible, prophesied doom.

Arthur would be made aware of how many times Merlin truly had _saved_ Arthur's life, after that dinner in the unlit, cobwebbed Hall, including diving into waters against the sinking powers of Avalon themselves to retrieve a drowning Arthur, gasping for chilly, morning air when they surfaced and dragging his limp body—mail and his armour, all of him—to shore.

Arthur would know he had unknowingly returned some of the favour, by joining forces to help Ealdor in its time of need. And doing so of his accord. How Merlin had feared Arthur discovering his magic, to suffer a fate by the fire. How a quick-witted Will _saved him_ from a too-early reveal.

Will had saved both Arthur and Merlin in his last moments, one from an arrow and the other from Uther's wrath.

Merlin had thought Arthur as supercilious and pompous and a right clotpole about most subjects, including the treatment of Merlin as a manservant, and while that still remains in degrees … what did not was the idea that Merlin didn't care for a shared destiny or if Arthur's enemies had disposed of him (sooner rather than later). He discovered in the face of Arthur's certain death, like the Questing Beast's jagged, bloody scratch, Merlin would have willingly exchanged his life for Arthur's.

Even to a self-satisfied Nimueh at the Isle of the Blessed.

Thunder groans in low rumbles outside the cottage. Merlin's thoughts stray out of his grasp as the rain softens its pattern. While water soothes, it does not every memory.

A day of rain, as it dripped down his contorting face, down Freya's face as she gazed admiringly towards the lake and then to him, her dark and pain-filled eyes smiling.

His princess. His first love he had ever known.

They were to have a home, just like this, with fields and mountains and wildflowers decorating her lovely, sweet-smelling hair like an ancient crown.

Arthur would know her story, and _who_ had dealt the fatal wound.

The entrance to Merlin's cottage swings open, with unseen hands, as Merlin pulls on his hiking boots and a brown, cargo jacket over his hoodie. He frowns contemplatively to himself. A question continues to hang about, as the minutes pass since Arthur's reappearance. The answers will not come to him without help.

Merlin can only hope doing away with an old instinct, one keeping him hidden for ages, benefits this decision.

He walks outside, not allowing himself to savour the cooling, damp sensation of autumn rain on his face. Merlin picks up speed into a run past the garden gate. Vanishing into the woods, zigzagging through the abundant trees and brush. Once a good distance, winded and freezing, his legs halt him towards the edge of a running brook.

His spindly, pale hand dips into the water.

The inside of his mouth drying in anticipation, as Merlin closes his eyes, wet lashes clinging.

"Ábire mec," he whispers to the brook.

 _{{Emrys._ }}

Blue eyes lid open.

The rain droplets slow around him, coming to a standstill in a pocket of eternal time. In several of the droplets, faces smile calmly at him.

_{{You have returned.}}_

Merlin's jaw sets, his head high, as he says, blankly, "I never left you."

_{{Something troubles you.}}_

"Arthur Pendragon has risen, from Avalon. Why now?"

_{{It was foretold, Emrys. He will walk upon the lands of Albion and restore what has been lost.}}_

He pushes his sopping, dark hair from his forehead.

"By whose doing? I know that you speak with other spirits and guardians of your element," he points out.

Merlin's exhale stutters at the intended, tranquil looks from the [Vilia](http://merlin.wikia.com/wiki/Vilia). Their murmuring voices.

_{{We believe you already know that answer.}}_

"I need to hear it." Merlin's jaw tightens, gaze beseeching. "Please," he rasps. "I need you to tell me."

_{{The Lady of the Lake has already granted you repayment for your kindness. You cast the Once and Future King into her waters, and therefore under her protection. Until now.}}_

Merlin's hand to his forehead lowers, fingertips rubbing at his tear ducts as a stinging heat fills his eyes.

_{{We understand your burdens, Emrys. The location of this forest will not be revealed.}}_

"Thank you," he murmurs, to no-one as the rain begins falling again over him kneeling to the soil.

Merlin's other hand withdraws from the brook's water, joining to his face as he wipes under his eyes and his nose.

 _Freya_.

*

Time passes like wisps of smoke. Arthur doesn't know how long it's been, but it hardly matters. His eyes do not lift from the pages.

At first, it's difficult to remind himself that this is indeed Merlin. The same man grown with him in the last years of his life. The one Arthur bonded with and found to be his closest friend. This Merlin seems to be completely different from the one he knew.

There were struggles Arthur had been clueless of, even when in the back of his mind he understood _something_ was off. Arthur had plenty of times, but now he wonders if the reasons are far different than he believed. This Merlin had struggled to hide his magic while trying to find a home in Camelot, all while serving him.

Merlin hit on the fact he found Arthur infuriating at first, to the point where resignation fueled their destinies. The thought shifts Arthur uncomfortably in place.

Yet, he had not been exactly fond of Merlin either, how much the idiot rambled, him darting off and the clumsiness. Not to mention Merlin never entirely grasped his… station, and was brash. But he soon considered that it was just _Merlin_ —had it not be equally the same for the other man?

Any struggles in testimony to the pages doesn't lessen, and then Arthur recognises one.

The Druid girl, a cursed thing, a hideous monster that killed on the stroke of midnight. Arthur had faced many beasts in his father's name, but he remembered them all. He remembered the innocent victims, along with feral growls and sleek black wings.

Yet, the story wasn't here—and instead, it started with a _name_.

_Freya._

The page is wrinkled, as if rewritten and handled more than the rest. Anything that graced the paper before is illegible, and Arthur runs his thumb over the soft ridges etched into the corner. The mere tone of the passages gives away more than the words, but he reads closely all the same.

Merlin had been the one to initially free her.

A flash of anger inside Arthur—how could Merlin not have realised his actions? Did he ever _think_?

No, of course _not_. Not kind, bighearted Merlin always getting himself in trouble for the sake of others.

How many other people did he hide from Uther? From him? The catacombs were mentioned, her hideaway. Ever so slowly, it seemed, a bond formed.

" _I know what it's like to hide a secret."_

Merlin's adoration for the Druid girl grew, and Arthur saw it clearly.

Merlin was falling in _love…_

At once, a twist of emotion with him battles for dominance. Anger, for Merlin to choose her. Didn't he know? Shouldn't he have been able to see the monster? Irritation, because of the fact Merlin hadn't _told_ him he was off with some girl while skivvying his duties. But the one most pronounced, the one Arthur feels shameful of, is something akin to _jealousy_.

Pathetic, incredibly unnecessary, but it's there all the same—curling, flaming in Arthur's chest.

Merlin planned on leaving Camelot, leaving Gaius and Gwen, and him, for this girl? A person he had only met a couple days ago?

Perhaps what's _worse_ is that Arthur couldn't blame him for that desire. Their conversation, the connection Merlin spoke of… Arthur could nearly sense it, his mood. They felt safe with each other, open and loving. Something that honestly Arthur would have never given Merlin.

Merlin was ready to throw it all away, everything, for her.

Yet, Arthur knew he hadn't.

The handwriting looks scrappier, the print bold as if Merlin wanted nothing more than to be done with his thoughts. Scribbled as if in a panic, recalling when Freya got Merlin to leave so she could escape on her own. That was when Merlin found her, surrounded by armed men, cornered.

Cornered by Arthur himself.

After wounding her, the beast had flown away. They searched the town and never saw the likes of it again. Arthur had assumed she fled, knowing Camelot would hunt her down once more. And now, Arthur can see this was not the case.

His stomach drops as Merlin recounted the trek to the lake, the Lake of Avalon, the very one Arthur himself pulled out of. He knows he is glimpsing upon an intimate moment, one solely belonging to Merlin and Freya, but one that should have never passed. Her last, soft words and a promise.

It wouldn't have happened if not for him. Arthur had felled her.

At the time he was protecting Camelot; she was a menace, a dark thing of magic and needed to be stopped.

He didn't _know_ … perhaps Arthur could have— he _would_ have handled it differently—

But there isn't an excuse.

Arthur understands his actions, what pain he inflicted on Merlin, and left in confusion and amazement. How could Merlin return to him? After slaying the woman he loved, how could Merlin remain so loyal? He fights the urge to drag himself up and _demand_ the answer from Merlin's lips.

He drops his head in his palm, scrubbing his face.

To know he caused this grief, to Merlin no less, is something he hoped to avoid. Arthur can only wonder what else lies before him, and dreads it.

But _needs_ to know, if he can ever grasp why Merlin stayed.

*

The return journey is a dulled-out haze, and Merlin snaps back to himself in time to re enter his cottage. The hearth's warmth reminding him of his violent shivering and chattering teeth.

He locks the cottage door behind him, on impulse more than anything.

The Vilia would hold their word; they were not malevolent or deceitful spirits. They healed the earth. They healed _him_ before, eras and eras long ago.

Ridding himself of his frigid-cold and clinging-wet clothing on him, Merlin kicks off the muddied boots along with his jeans on the front rug, tossing away the jacket and hoodie and his dripping scarf onto the wood floor-panels, aimless. Left in his undershirt and pants, and deciding it isn't inconvenient at the moment, he moves towards the parlour's fireplace.

Merlin holds out his trembling, pinkened hands, gazing at the hallway where his library doors remain unopened.

Arthur was still inside, hunched down and scrambling with the burdensome meaning of untold memories.

He huddles down in front of the crackling fire, on the braided throw-rug, rubbing his hands together absently.

Arthur might blame himself for Freya. _Noble_ Arthur… who had been trying to do the right thing, by the way of the sword. It wasn't as if Merlin could simply walked out of the path of destiny as he damn well pleased. Freya had been caught in the midst, and suffered. At least… he hoped deep down she hadn't in the very end.

It took time and patience based on the circumstances, and he dared to think acceptance would never be _fully_ given… but he and Arthur were meant for something far more greater.

Arthur could not have become a worthy king on his own, as he had been led to believe, nor would he be safe. Camelot needed to remain safe. And Merlin did accept this, blindly, perhaps too blindly, returning to Arthur's side but with a thinner, mournful smile.

She _protected_ Arthur.

Merlin's bare shoulders constrict, shifting the muscles beneath his skin, beneath the Pendragon crest tattoo ebony-dark against white skin.

If given the chance to answer… he forgives Arthur.

They are friends. More than friends, really. Arthur's his other half, the person Merlin will not even toy with the idea of hating.

What else might shock Arthur? Certainly, the understanding that the Last Dragonlord had not _died_.

That the very Last Dragonlord had been attempting to feed Arthur scrambled eggs this morning, wearing a slightly goofy smile and offering the shower to him first…

That the Great Dragon had _lived_ after the battle, for decades and decades on when Merlin spared his life by dropping his spear and _commanding_ mercy be shown…

That Merlin had only known his true heritage from Balinor for several days at the most, had been accepted by his father for less than that, before everything promising had been stripped forcibly away from him with cold, biting steel—leaving Merlin with plenty of warm tears to shed, a head full of unanswered questions, and his hands cradling one last gift from this brave, wonderful man: the delicate, wood-carving of a white dragon.

It would not be the last time Merlin pondered events to transpire, however.

He's reminded of his first time in the Crystal Cave, wrecked with a migraine thudding between his eyes as visions of Morgana killing Uther collided each other inside his skull. Being terrified for Arthur's dire condition just outside the dank, damp cave, and terrified to return home and _knowing_ what would come.

It would not the _last_ time Merlin washed Arthur's dried blood off his palms.

Deeming himself no longer freezing, and able to move from his spot, the warlock clamours to his feet, dashing into his bedroom with wet lump of clothes in tow. One of the dark red henleys catches Merlin's eye in the drawer and he nicks it, slipping it on wordlessly. The hem snug over the waistband of his trousers.

The kitchen isn't as pleasant in temperature, though flipping on the oven would change it, but he leaves it. Merlin's fingers pick apart the unopened cardboard of the mini jam doughnuts, popping two in his mouth ravenously, smearing his mouth in sugar.

How is Arthur not _starving_? God, this is delicious.

Merlin licks at his mouth a little, bowing his face and wiping it with his sleeve. No table manners when there's no-one to impress.

He should cook… something. Anything, maybe an early dinner for the pair of them, and shove it down Arthur's throat if he couldn't be buggered, interrupted from reading.

*

After steeling himself for the rest, Arthur straightens up and reads on.

He knows there's no real preparation, especially since so far Arthur had come across things he had never expected, but he _needs_ to try. When Merlin gave him the tome, he warned Arthur there were secrets, ones dangerous and others grieving, and Arthur hardly assumed all he seen would be the last of it.

The following accounts—Alvarr, the Knights of Medhir, both occurrences of _wicked_ magic—embed in Arthur's memory and he had believed sheer courage bested them.

But it hadn't.

Magic against magic. Merlin against others.

And then, Arthur's fingers steadily turn to the final page.

 _Nothing_.

A blank sheet of parchment stares back at him. Arthur blinks. That _can't_ be all.

His hands slam the gild-scripted tome closed, frustration prodding at him. It's not a particularly large object, admittedly. But Merlin told him everything had been _within_ its pages.

Had he been lying, or—

Arthur quickly opens it back up on his lap, pale blue eyes widening as he realises the text is now _upside-down_. He adjusts the tome to the correct position, still open to the final page now an _entirely new_ one—and the beginning of the next chapter it appears.

"You must be joking…" he mutters, fascinated despite it.

His gaze focuses on a name, and Arthur instantly feels a growing suspicion of not liking where this is going.

Balinor. The Last Dragonlord.

The passage is about the Great Dragon and Camelot being under attack. The formidable creature had escaped, but now Merlin recounted _he_ freed him. _Merlin_ had trusted it on its word, and instead the Great Dragon raged onto the kingdom. Arthur remembers his father, the panic, determined to save their citizens and utilize the dwindling number of their guards.

That was when Uther decided to ask the Dragonlord for help.

Finding him had been extensive and painstaking, especially with just Arthur and Merlin. His companion had been acting strangely during the mission, but after Balinor's death—the ruins of the citadel and their lives were still massed with confusion. But Merlin's tale had an unwavering _clarity_.

For a third time this morning, Arthur's sure he will be ill.

He reads through Gaius' revelation, Merlin's discussion with Balinor while Arthur had gone out to inspect the grounds. He and Merlin had spoken briefly about Merlin's family early on, about how Merlin had never known his father. Arthur had known Hunith—an admirable and courageous woman. He saw much of Merlin in her.

Balinor was Merlin's _father_.

Arthur's mind whirls. He _knew_ Merlin had magic, but to be the _son_ of the Last Dragonlord? That kind of power is immeasurable, but Arthur's stuck on another detail.

Merlin is a _Dragonlord_.

"What?" he breathes out, expression morphing into one of shock as his eyes dart to the oak doors. Merlin, the clumsy idiot, who wore trousers far too tight and ridiculous garments. The one cooking him breakfast, and had branded himself permanently with Arthur's crest. The one with blue eyes that smile even when Merlin doesn't.

 _He_ is the Last Dragonlord.

This whole time, they were believe to be extinct, but Merlin had been right under everyone's nose, as a servant. The king's servant.

Merlin could have been so powerful, could have done so much more and _conquered_ , but instead he remained at Arthur's side and did his _chores_.

Arthur takes a deep, steadying breath.

He's reread the text multiple times, and the urge to jump up and storm around the hovel to locate Merlin is potent. But Arthur refrains. There would be time enough for it. It's almost a blessing when Morgana is brought up. Merlin had suspected her from the beginning after her disappearance, while Arthur had been blind to it.

Gwaine was mentioned, a fond reminder of the ungodly period they had spent with him before his days as a knight—most of the time, Arthur had wondered how they survived.

And then, a phrase stands out, giving Arthur a pause.

The Crystal Cave.

*

A stew would be fitting, with the leftover chicken and sausages.

Merlin paces around his kitchen, with measured, rapt deliberation. He rummages through small kitchen cupboards on the walls and the refrigerator for an unopened bag of kale, the fresh tomatoes from the supermarket, choves of garlic, and so on.

His hands clasp one of his saucepans, heaving it onto the hob. Merlin hovers to his chopping board, laying and arranging the ingredients. Some gleaming from a rinse in the sink, and others in their respective places when his mind wanders away from him again.

So much to recall, so much happened during those years in Camelot.

He sometimes wonders if he mixes up facts and events, the lies told to Arthur, and people's names with their features.

One morning—Sicily, Italy in 1979—Merlin woke in a panic to stonework walls in his modest flat, his mouth tasting like chalk, face tingling numb. Unable to recall what colour Lancelot's eyes had been, the creases in Morgana's brow when she frowned, the ashy smell of Gwen's childhood home, and if he had been any sort of decent horse-rider in the 6th century…

But, oddly, he remembered mouldy, milky cobwebs. Sewn across the impressive, graying figure of the Fisher King.

It had been Arthur's quest to claim the Trident. But the Fisher King informed Merlin how the Trident was nothing more than an accessory, a useless relic of ages-past. _Merlin_ was the one to discover him, to benefit from this quest he embarked. To finally put the Fisher King to rest, to put an end to the suffering brought on by a life of immortality.

At the time, through naïve and softhearted eyes, Merlin could not understand such a heavy request and hesitated.

If his heart had not believed in Kilgharrah's promise, even the tiniest traces of Arthur's return to come, Merlin imagined… eventually, putting his own life to an end. As awful as it sounded. He would have saved himself the grief of waiting in an endless cycle of time as an observer of rising and falling civilizations, of making new allegiances and friends, and watching them slip through the cracks of his fingers like grains of sand.

He understands _now_ how much of a mercy the Fisher King was granted by Merlin placing the Eye of the Phoenix to his wrist.

Merlin's fingers loosen their iron-grip on the cutting knife, as he consciously slow his efforts.

That dreadful bracelet, called a "token" from Morgana to Arthur before the quest. How it sucked the very life-essence from him. How badly Morgana wanted to see Arthur fall.

There were no proper words for the extent of Merlin's pity for her, his fear and sorrow of Morgana. He grieved her decisions, grieved that he could not _help_ her before Morgause filled her heart with hatred for Camelot and its people, and for the male Pendragon lineage.

He grieved his _own_ decisions—not helping her, resorting to poisoning Morgana with a concoction of drinking water and wolfsbane, holding her quaking and gasping body in his arms, feeling a part of himself _poisoned_ as well, dark and unforgivable.

She returned, of course. To imprison Uther, break his spirit. Terrorize his people, even if it had been a short time. Arthur never completely regained himself from her betrayal.

A drizzle of olive oil lands on the heated saucepan, sizzling loudly as Merlin's hand tips it in.

His hands working on muscle memory while Merlin's mind glosses through further memories.

Being driven from Camelot, Morgana resorted to _damaging_ the balance of the world. She tore open the veil of the otherworld and theirs on Samhain. He _felt_ it happen so suddenly, at the stroke of midnight, opening like a pulsing wound inside him. A sense of bone-cold overtook him and pushed the very air out of his lungs, incapable of drawing it back in.

Leaping at the Dorocha had felt the same, when he drove himself to protect Arthur and then became clouded, eyes bugging, and slammed headfirst as the restless spirits groaned and shrieked all around him, in his ears.

Driven by a similar instinct to protect those dearest to him, Lancelot glanced over his shoulder to Merlin at the Isle of the Blessed, wind whipping about him at the seal of two worlds. He smiled quietly and bravely as he sacrificed himself for the greater good.

No-one had been _braver_ of a man. No-one Merlin had ever known.

He empties the chicken and sausage cuts into the pan, stirring thoughtlessly. Adding in the chopped garlic, his nostrils filling with the pleasant scent.

That year had been difficult: starting with Lancelot passing, soon following with Arthur's birthday—a time to be celebrated, marked in the assassination of Uther Pendragon. And the little Merlin could do… it did not help. He could not sit by and watch. As a result, Uther died, and Arthur lost a father and an idol.

Another parent _taken_ from him because of the effects of magic, though it had been Morgana's victory.

It was no small wonder why the ban on sorcery had not been lifted for the remainder of Arthur's reign as King. And while Arthur had finally been worthy of his title, had shown clemency and benevolence to his subjects who deserved this, Merlin had feared him straying from the right course on one occasion.

The purposeful murder of Caerleon, badgered on by Agravaine, and the result inciting the possibility of war against Queen Annis.

Only accepting the dueling challenge with one of Annis' champions, could Arthur prove himself to the other ruler. Arthur's heart was not lost; he did not wish for war. Merlin could see that during, Arthur's sword brandished high above his dazed enemy for a killing stroke. He had looked upon Merlin's awed gaze, lowering his sword with the weight of his mercy.

The saucepan loads with browned meat, diced tomatoes and cannellini beans, soaking in the broth and kale.

Merlin flips on the heat to a simmer, features distant.

His hands clench at the work-top behind him. He waits, but not alone. The tormented memories, ones to be burning in Arthur's mind, envelope him, swaddle him like an infant blanket.

He tried to _kill_ Arthur that year as well, infected by the curse of the Formorroh and losing everything that made Merlin _Merlin_. Arthur had not ever known the true assassination in his midst… was his most trusted servant. The person who would sooner run himself through with the flying arrow from the dressing cabinet than attempt to feed Arthur poison.

Truthfully, Merlin could not remember _anything_ after Morgana torturing him in her hut until Gaius removed the first head of the Fomorroh.

All of his writings on it had been scrapes of Gaius and Gwen's retelling. Merlin had only been made aware that he was a _terrible_ assassin, and a downright cranky one at that.

Despite himself, Merlin's lips curl up.

That must have been something.

His lips flatten, and he goes back to concentrating on the meal. He never enjoyed indulging on the past, not ones that ached so familiarly.

The stew bubbles in its pan, and Merlin's fingers pinch a dash of salt and pepper into the concoction. He shuts off the hob. Merlin fishes out a loaf of bread.

As soon as he locates the missing bread knife, Merlin's ears register footsteps hurrying in his direction, and does not turn to meet them.

Here it comes, the yelling. The indignation.

Hands pull Merlin around, instead. But it's hard to tell what heightened emotion manifests in this rough gesture.

What he does not expect is Arthur moving in, so fast that Merlin can't see the blond's expression, and feels the strong and tight presence of Arthur's embrace. The sharpness of Arthur's breathing. The slight tremor of his body against Merlin's.

He can't be.

Arthur's… crying?

 

*


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JFC. THE AMOUNT OF LOVE YOU GUYS SHOWED IN THIS LAST CHAPTER. WOW. I'M STUNNED AND OVERJOYED. ♥ ♥ But I'm always alwaysALWAYS happy when I hear from my readers. Your thoughts matter to me, okay? c:
> 
> I'd like to thank my newest darling beta [veritably_mad](http://archiveofourown.org/users/veritably_mad/pseuds/veritably_mad/) for helping me out last minute and everyone who has supported me. As well as my Britpick [ememmyem](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ememmyem/pseuds/ememmyem) who saved my neck. And most importantly, half of this fic wouldn't exist without [marlena_darling](http://archiveofourown.org/users/marlena_darling/pseuds/marlena_darling) and I wanna say thank you for taking this journey with me and you've been a best friend to me. I love you lots and this is ours.
> 
> (Future rating as chapters appear will jump to "Explicit" for sexual/violent content and more warnings/tags to be added.)

 

*

 

Arthur's not sure how long this goes on.

He manages to tune out the rest of the world for a little while. After reading of Merlin's experience in the cave, of his panic and tears caused by a near-death situation for Arthur himself, Arthur finally believes he understands why Merlin seemed so short-tempered that day. It may have been years ago, but Arthur hasn't forgotten days like that.

That part of the tale had been left behind; now, Arthur grows closer towards the end. Towards _his_ end.

The signs are easy to pick up—Guinevere and his marriage, her being crowned his Queen. Her kidnapping, at the hand of none other than Morgana, and then Mordred's betrayal. Merlin wrote of his prophecies once more, the ones that told of Mordred's destiny to be the one to slay Arthur. They were right, of course, and Merlin's words slow his anticipation.

Over the course of reading, the secrets pile up.

So much of his life has been a _lie_ , a cover for the magic truly at work under his very nose. While some of it angered him, frustrated him, by this point… it only hurt Arthur to know how desperately Merlin wanted to tell him. Merlin believed Arthur to be his hope for a better future, and then the night of Uther's death—it had been swept away.

Uther died at the hand of a sorcerer… because, in part, of Merlin.

Even realising this, Arthur doesn't feel a surge of rage. Gaius made it clear the sorcerer had not killed the king, and that Uther passed while the old sorcerer did everything he could. At the time, it may have been difficult to believe, but Arthur learned to forgive.

Merlin's anguish over his mistakes is evident in the text. There's a numbed resignation that Camelot would still be against magic—and it's almost _unbearable_ to read.

Soon enough, the story levels out to the period of time Arthur remembers last.

Sir Mordred, with the cold and empty look on his face as he thrust his blade into Arthur's side. Arthur remembers collapsing, and then Merlin had grabbed him, taking hold of him and dragging him away from the blood-drenched corpses of Saxons and his knights.

Arthur's life then changed forever, in only two days.

It's odd to hear Merlin's encounter; Arthur's own memories had distorted after some time, hazy from his injuries and the exhaustion.

There was a great deal said, plenty Arthur doesn't remember saying. Some, he remembers clearly, and to hear it on Merlin's end is a blow to him. Arthur _knew_ then Merlin was trying his hardest to keep it together while they traveled, but the softhearted fool never got it down right. There had been glimpses of the eyes above Arthur, shiny and wet. The red, blotched cheeks that accompanied a halfhearted, breathless laugh. The lucidity is startling.

In a way, Arthur's reliving his own death.

It's been by far one of the strangest moments, but here he is, reading it in explicit detail, in his own mind. As if Merlin _remembers_ everything about that morning. Arthur's chest feels heavy. Every once in a while, he's forced to dig for another breath, but carries on with Merlin's telling.

_Hold me. Just, hold me… please._

It's the plea Arthur recalls vividly, wanting nothing more than to feel warm and safe— _not terrified_.

He wanted Merlin there with him.

But what comes next may be the worst. Merlin's grief and devastation overwhelms it all, and Arthur finds himself biting down on his lower lip, to still the quiver. Merlin, loyal, selfless Merlin, thought he failed his destiny, and lost his friend. He lost Arthur to _tragedy_.

Blinking rapidly, Arthur skims through the part where Merlin builds a ceremonial funeral boat, much like he did for Freya, and for Sir Lancelot.

There's more beyond this last page. What he needs to do is shut the tome and reverse it in his lap. But he doesn't. Arthur leaves it sitting out, heaving himself back onto his feet. He's already out the double oak doors and marching to the kitchen. His pace quick, fighting off his own tremors.

Merlin looks like he's cooking, and it's not the languid and cheerful version Arthur left behind, but lonely and his muscles stiff.

His hands firmly grasp Merlin's shoulders, pulling him around to face him. One of his arms remains tightly locked around Merlin's neck, and the other round his middle. Arthur presses in close. His head lowers, hiding against Merlin's throat, his neck bowing to rest his face in the crook.

Blue eyes clamp shut. A sharp exhale leaves him, along with a hurried mumble. No words describe how he feels besides a name. Nothing else makes sense.

" _Merlin_."

*

He supposes… this is good.

Arthur isn't yelling, demanding explanations and storming about. Crying, however… isn't exactly an _improvement_.

Merlin's hands hover indecisively, inches from Arthur's shoulders. To say Merlin is surprised by this reaction would be unnecessary. It's common knowledge. Arthur isn't one to _initiate_ hugs (though plenty capable to receiving them, as Merlin had seen in the loving relationship with Gwen).

It doesn't fit his character, not what Merlin remembers of it.

A flutter of panic tickles at the walls of his esophagus.

 _No_. This isn't Italy, waking up with his chest heaving and perspiration covering his face. Merlin can _remember_.

He had been granted the opportunity of a hug the other day. Merlin assumes Arthur did it out of obligation and sympathy. The moment between them felt _surreal_.

Maybe not as surreal as a cold, foggy morning in the woods, Arthur's mail-clad arm colliding into Merlin's windpipe as they got their first good look at each other in over a thousand years.

The warm, tight rein of Arthur's arm on his neck shifts Merlin uncomfortably. The warlock slowly returns the hug, clasping onto Arthur's middle, relaxed. He does not shy away from Arthur's head weighing down on the junction between his shoulder and neck. Or from the quiet, broken tone Arthur uses to address him.

"Arthur," Merlin says to him, keeping his voice at a murmur. He turns to gold locks in his peripheral. "What is it?"

One of Merlin's hands spans on Arthur's side, fingers lightly grasping at the dark grey fabric.

A worrying sensation curdles inside Merlin's stomach, doubling in strength when they separate and he glances at Arthur. The reddened quality of Arthur's eyes is unmistakable. Arthur _has_ been crying—but over what? Gwen's death? From being overwhelmed with new information?

Was he deep down _angry_?

A clear, wet trail rolls out of the corner of Arthur's left eye, blinked out. Merlin's forefinger twitches up, meaning to wipe it away. He stops himself halfway from doing it, dropping his hand awkwardly.

What was he _thinking_?

*

It had been impulse, really.

There's no explanation for what he's doing. Perhaps it's merely emotions getting the better of him.

Arthur had wanted to yell. Wanted to shout, to confront Merlin about what he learned through Merlin's eyes. Yet, in the moment Arthur stepped through the kitchen doorway, saw the warlock standing there, Arthur's body moved on its own accord.

That doesn't mean he regrets where they are.

With thinner, careful arms draping around him, Arthur senses the constriction in his lungs, building up inside his chest, finally release at the gesture. He keeps his grip tight on Merlin, like he's concerned that one of them would pull away too quickly if let go.

It's… _how much_ Merlin has done for him. The sacrifices he now knew, what Merlin had been forced to endure, for him, for them.

A soft voice drifts into Arthur's hearing, and he snaps to himself, unsure of what to say.

What _could_ he tell Merlin?

Sucking in a deep breath of rain and sugar and Merlin, Arthur finally does pull away. Slowly.

He needs the time to compose himself, back straightening.

"I've read it," Arthur tells him, hesitating a moment. "I… understand what you did for me, Merlin. I think I do now."

His hands on Merlin's shoulders, keeping him steady and in place. There's an appreciative undercurrent to the words. Merlin's sure his breath caught at least once or twice, and that wonderment and _relief_ sweeps over his own face.

"And how difficult that was. I'm certain it hadn't been easy… your loyalty is astounding."

When Merlin says nothing, only staring on, Arthur gives a loud slap to his arm. Merlin doesn't sway when hands release him, only grins.

This has to have taken a lot out of him. The whole experience of diving into Merlin's perspective, reacting to its poignant emotions. He had not been made aware of Merlin's plight. And now he _answers_ to the man who wrote those words.

Arthur would hardly know what to do with himself in a state of vulnerability.

At the loyalty comment, Merlin's lips press together, holding back a smirk.

"I could have _told_ you that, clotpole," he drawls, eyeing the other man. "I may have been making up excuses about picking herbs for Gaius instead of polishing your armour all morning, but I _definitely_ wasn't having a go about how many times I've saved your royal arse."

Arthur's eyebrows shoot up. He huffs out a laugh.

"With as many times as I had to save you, I don't believe we're evenly matched."

" _Almost_ ," Merlin points out, feeling something enlivened stir inside him when Arthur smirks. "I wasn't actually keeping score myself."

He has answers—the gilded tome in Merlin's library solved many mysteries and eased confusion, but Arthur desires to hear the rest.

"And you still have explaining to do, _Dragonlord_."

Merlin's skin prickles, his magic coursing through him lightning-quick at the formal address of his title.

No-one has called him that for nearly _three hundred_ years.

"Sitting, eating, and then explaining." He notes the paleness of Arthur's face, the occasional tremor of his body. "I'm afraid you're going to keel over."

Merlin pushes out the wooden stool for Arthur, going for the utensil drawer for a spoon. He scoops the dinner stew into a bowl, handing it over to Arthur when the other man sits. Merlin scoops some for himself into a second bowl, taking the stool near the kitchen window, facing directly across from Arthur and sipping a moment on the broth.

The easygoing banter lulls the air around them, interrupted by Arthur's stomach gurgling.

He's thankful Arthur is getting food in him after running on fumes. They've been distracted today.

The last thing he needs is Arthur getting sick, unsure if the trip from Avalon weakened his immune system, but determined to get him on a regular schedule of food and rest.

Merlin's eyes linger over the faire flier. He reaches for the flier, creaking his stool sideways as Merlin slides it towards himself.

"Can go, if you like. Both of us." He shrugs. "S'not for two days. We'll need to go to the costume shoppe tomorrow."

Blue eyes flick up. Arthur's resolve wavers.

Would it be a good idea? He wants to, of course he does—but what would that dredge up? Would it be harder to adjust?

Arthur nods, anyway.

"I'd like that," he says blankly, lifting his spoon again.

It's not hard to read the conflict in Arthur's expression. Merlin himself hasn't been to any faires, for any of the years he's lived close to town. He assumes he would not share the favourable opinions of the whimsy or blatant mockery of that time period. Or wish to experience such arduous fragments of his memories likely to befall him.

But if it would make Arthur happier… who was Merlin to deny him that? The man _died_ for his kingdom and for his people, for god's sake. Arthur deserved to indulge one last time in his era.

He muses on this some more, his eyes wandering to stare off, chewing and gulping down another mouthful of stew. Hmm, the broth seemed a bit salty.

Arthur's spoon clatters into his bowl, pulling at his attention, Arthur's voice floating in.

"I only finished up to my passing," he admits, glancing up. "I'd like to hear the rest from you, Merlin."

Arthur didn't finish the… _oh_.

Merlin's lip strains hard under his teeth.

No, _good_ … this is good. He's certain that he doesn't have the heart now to reminiscence the sentiment of Arthur's death. Not when the man who died in his arms is sitting right in front of Merlin, waiting and expecting to hear Merlin's failings from his own lips.

But, Arthur wants to hear the _rest_ of it.

Merlin's head spins with the bits n' bots he tries to collect, piece together a suitable rehash, but his mouth opens without his permission.

"I didn't return to Camelot afterward. Not at first."

_Arthur's blood on his palms and fingers washed off in the banks of a river he stumbled into. Water filling Merlin's boots inch by inch, but his feet were light as clouds, his vision woozy._

"I doubt I may have at all if Gaius hadn't found me," he murmurs, brow furrowing. The plastic bowl in Merlin's hands dents with the pressure of him gripping it. "The Crystal Cave had been dark… darker than before."

_Blood newly coated Merlin's hands, cut open as he tore at the faint-glow crystals all sides of him._

"I was there for some time."

_Merlin's screams of agonised fury echoed off every wall-crevice, bringing him no solace when his chaotic and wild magic stemmed out, destroying the Cave of what it could touch. Leaving the amaranthine, dazzling structure of the crystals in broken ruins. Great, heaving sobs escaped him for days on end. It was the only noise to greet him. Merlin's splotchy, red face slick with tears and mucus._

_He bent over himself, sucking in the cedar, earthy soil of the ground below him._

_And that was the position Gaius found him in, surrounded by the ruins, starved and dehydrated and unable to manage a coherent word._

_His magic went quiet, like it had dwindled away with the shock. Merlin did not speak again in the weeks to follow, not even to a concerned Gwen—the strong-willed Queen of Camelot, who suddenly lost her husband, who had not been allowed the mercy of a loving 'goodbye'. She made herself scarce to others, holding a warm, damp cloth to Merlin's forehead the night of his return. Pleaded softly with him to be well. Pleaded that she could not lose another person dear to her so soon—_

Merlin's stew bowl lands with an audible thump on the work-top as he pushes it away. Eyes growing wider.

"I—I can't—" Merlin scrubs his hands across his face, exhaling frantic and loud. He mumbles into them. "Not those— _not_ them. I'll tell you anything else you want, just… please—"

His heart pounds so fast, fast in his ribcage, the tempo resounding in his skull.

Merlin stubbornly grinds his palms to his cheeks, refusing to look up. Fingernails digging slightly in his temples, creating little half-moons of colour to stark pale skin. Merlin's next exhale lobs out of him like a rattle to his lungs. Merlin can't go back there. Not to that despair and grieving.

He _can't_.

During this, Merlin misses the other thump of Arthur's bowl, but not the warm hand prying apart of one of Merlin's hands from his cringing, dry face. The momentary intrusion seems gentle yet firm. Qualities that Arthur possessed when faced with a citizen he thought distressed and in need of reassurance.

Merlin's name lapses calmly from Arthur's lips. And his head jerks up to meet another's eyes, his own still wide with panic.

*

Arthur's eyes had remain carefully trained on Merlin after his request, once again unsure of what reaction he would receive.

By now, he was learning that what was typically expected of Merlin isn't the case anymore. There are differences in everything about him, but his skill in avoiding the question could still be intact.

Merlin bites his lip, and a long period of silence falls over them.

It doesn't start as how Arthur expected. Perhaps an account on how the battle ended, what _happened_ after Merlin found the knights, or when Camelot discovered the news.

Instead, Merlin spoke of being _away_ from Camelot. It's not the course of action Arthur expected from him, but he keeps it to himself, waiting for an explanation. He finds himself leaning on the counter, resting his arms and trying to listen for the quieter tone.

The moment he hears about the Crystal Cave, Arthur feels a chill spread throughout his body.

In the tome, the cave had been one of the more difficult passages for Arthur to get past. The time Merlin spent trying to heal him, to keep Arthur from the brink of death that loomed over him. The tears shed for him.

But now, he _hears_ the emotion instead of reads it from Merlin's hand. He can hear it in Merlin's voice, see it in his eyes, and Arthur can tell this is a low he never could have imagined.

His gaze remains on Merlin when the other man trails off, lips pursed.

He doesn't know what had happened, or what Merlin is remembering, but Arthur _knows_ he doesn't like it.

Arthur's body tenses when Merlin's bowl jolts across the table. Merlin's obviously distressed, and Arthur's resolve wavers. If just _thinking_ about it causes Merlin such pain, then does he really want to know? Is he ready? Is Arthur prepared to hear how Guinevere ruled in his stead? How Leon, Gwaine, Percival—how they continued on? Gaius? The people?

There are so many questions, whispering to him, needling him. What's happening now is up to Merlin, and Arthur would _try_ to get what he needs from Merlin. But try gently for once.

He pushes his own bowl aside for later, and in one steady yet careful movement, he reaches out.

Arthur grasps at Merlin's hand, pulling it away and revealing a bit more of the man in his sight. He's trying to comfort a friend who desperately needs it, and makes a point to grip tighten to their hands as he places them down. Arthur takes in the sight of him and offers no insult to it, no traces of unkindness.

"Merlin," he says, evenly. "I understand it's difficult. What you've been through… I can't imagine. But, please." Arthur tips his head a little so he's clearly looking at Merlin. "They were our friends… people I cared for the most. I'd like to honour their memories by knowing what happened after I left them."

But truthfully, when there's only hush, Arthur begins to wonder if he can get Merlin to retell any of it.

The other man levels his gaze to Arthur's, once their hands come together, and looks on with a deep expression in his eyes. Arthur isn't sure then how long it was, but he doesn't pull from Merlin, looking back in earnest and firmly, being _strong_ like he knows he had to be. For both of their sakes.

This _isn't_ just about him; it never was. If Merlin truly didn't want to speak of it, Arthur would have no choice but to go back to the library. He had to learn at some point—Arthur wouldn't be happy with the mystery surrounding him. He needed closure, to be _reassured_ that the ones he loved were able to fend for themselves.

Finally, Merlin straightens up, removing his other hand from his face, and then Arthur knows he's giving in. And he's proud of him.

"I wouldn't want to pressure you," he adds, but maybe it's _partly_ a lie.

But, Arthur prefers to name what he's doing as 'coaxing'.

*

It may have been more than a few minutes for all he knows.

Eventually, Merlin's other hand drops limply to his side, hanging over the floor, as the first cradles in Arthur's own. He's being so _stupid_.

" _M'sorry—_ "

(There's no need to talk about the Cave. He wouldn't.)

"—You're right. I can't keep that from you," Merlin agrees, nodding to him, shoulders beginning to relax. His fingers to the work-top twitch faintly to life, covered by Arthur's hand. The pressure and human-warmth of Arthur's summer-gold skin pillaring him. "I wouldn't… keep that from you."

This isn't about Merlin, not in the very slightest. How can he think like that? This is about what Arthur's _missing_ , about filling in the blanks.

"When Gaius brought me back to Camelot, I heard that the Saxons had retreated from the battleground. Camelot was safe from invaders," he begins. "I couldn't talk. I couldn't make myself. Gaius thought I was in shock, and had me confined to my bed. But I got the message across to Gwen, without using words, about your passing." Merlin's eyes dim. "There was a… formal announcement before her ceremony. Morgana had killed Gwaine before you and I had encountered her. Percival found him, carried him back. For the pyre the same day.

"There were years better than others. The tradition of the Roundtable meetings for the knights never went away. It was one of the many ways they honoured you, Arthur.

"Sir Leon died, as I understood it, victorious during a battle in the Northern Plains. Something he probably always wanted, if he had been given the choice. Percival disappeared, round ten years after Gwen's ceremony. A few of us suspected he had met someone he took a fancy to… which after Gwaine, we weren't sure if he could have managed it with the broken heart." Merlin smiles distantly, and then to Arthur who shoots him a bemused look. " _Aha_ … if this is news to you, then you really _are_ a clotpole, clotpole."

He squirms noticeably on the wood stool, his toothy, large smile on his features losing some of its brightness.

"Gaius passed. One morning in his sleep, he didn't wake up again. They needed a new Court Physician. And I expected that Gwen wouldn't take a 'no' from me." Merlin could replay in his mind the private meeting between them like it had transpired hours ago. Her sternly playful gaze on him in Gaius' chambers, as he laughed and joked about being 'too inexperienced' for the position.

"She ruled for a long time, y'know. Camelot was peaceful with her wearing the crown.

"Being immortal is a complete rubbish. It seems funny… and then it isn't when you feel like you haven't changed a damn day. When you have to look at the people you love and see how much they've aged, and how content they are with that.

"I held my mother's hand. And I did the same for Gwen. I stayed with her the last hours. As the Court Physician, I was the only one who had been allowed, to make it easier. But I wanted to stay as her friend." Merlin's fingers adjust, facing upwards, twining comfortably together with Arthur's fingers.

"We talked about you, for a while," Merlin says, eyes soft on the other man, voice coming out breathy. "We both thought at first you were going to be nothing but a stinking prat for the rest of your life… but we had been so wrong.

"Gwen wasn't afraid of dying. She thought she was going to meet you in the next life—and I couldn't take that from her," he rasps, eyes gleaming. "Not with the truth.

"Without her, the kingdom slowly fell apart. Mercenaries. Thieves. And then, more invaders and more Saxons." There was no legitimate heir to the throne, and very little order. The citadel emptied, the lower town, and every soul left. The walls turned to dust.

"I left, too," the warlock says, grimly. "No amount of magic would have been able to restore what had been taken from us. Because nothing stays the same forever."

The pure _irony_ washes right over Merlin, and he swallows down a sudden, mad laugh building in his throat.

"This is a lot to understand, believe me. I get that." Merlin narrows his eyes, seriously. He encourages, "But you need to remember that Camelot had been the great kingdom you envisioned, even after you weren't there to see it, Arthur. There's no more that could have been asked of you. And you were _loved_ by your people, no less than you deserved."

Even in death.

*

Merlin opens his mouth, and instantly, Arthur goes quiet, wanting to take it all in.

The relieved breath is audible when he hears the Saxons were defeated—yes, he understands Camelot had survived under Guinevere's rule, but it's _comforting_ to know she had not been left with the destruction. Sir Gwaine's death is mentioned, and Arthur's jaw tightens up.

He died long before Arthur. Arthur hadn't even known of it. If he could have gotten to Morgana _sooner_ …

No.

Arthur forces himself to repeat the word— _No_. He could not start on regrets. It was too late for that, over a thousand years _too late_ , and it would do him no favours. To know Sir Gwaine received the ceremony he deserved, alongside his own, comes with a bittersweet tinge on Arthur's mouth.

Gwaine, lively, ever the _devil_ incarnate and energetic, a constant pain. He deserved a _better_ ending than the one he received.

The knights did keep the traditions of the Round Table. Arthur can't help but feel a surge of delight for his men. Ever brave and always loyal, even after he was gone. Camelot's finest.

News of Leon's passing stung much like Gwaine's, but he simply releases an exhale, allowing him the opportunity to _believe_ Merlin's statement about it being Leon's decision. Of course, Leon would have preferred the blaze of glory. Arthur knew him well, for so long. Leon would have been been an irreplaceable second-in-command.

Arthur's eyes slowly raise at Sir Percival's disappearance, in time to catch the faint smile that graces Merlin's lips. It's a sight he desperately needs to see, even if it isn't his usual one. Arthur rolls his blue eyes, giving a slight head-shake.

"I'm not a fool, Merlin," he points out, mouth quirking.

Arthur had his suspicions at the time, about the extent of Gwaine and Percival's relationship. It had not been a concern of his—if his men were happy, that was what mattered. Yet, to imagine the poor, broken-hearted man carrying Gwaine's lifeless body back to Camelot…

The other stool creaks, and the tone of Merlin's voice cues the loss of his spirited grin.

 _Gaius_.

Arthur can't think of a better way for the old physician to leave them. After all the years of chaos and ruin, Gaius needed a restful passing. He almost asks Merlin how that had been. But the words bite down—if Merlin wouldn't desire to repeat the encounters, Arthur would not dwell on them.

He knows very well that his beloved queen would have insisted on no one else but Merlin for the role. Gaius' role. She was built stubborn, and was always _right_ , too.

Arthur wants Merlin to break it off, to go no further because he _knows_ where this conversation will lead him. Arthur's not immortal, but he _still_ outlived everyone in his life. He can't fathom why anyone would strive for this power… when the evidence of its consequences is the lack of light in Merlin's eyes, and the numbness in Arthur's own chest.

When Merlin's thin fingers lock around his, Arthur grips back, appreciating the security as Guinevere's last hours become the main subject.

He peeks up at Merlin, and a soft, astonished laugh erupts from him.

To know Merlin had been there, until the very _end_ … the two souls he cared for most, reminiscing of him no less… Arthur feels an unspeakable gratitude trembling within him. For all Merlin had done for him, when it meant Guinevere had never died on her own, but with her friends.

Arthur had seen kingdoms crumble, whole cities and bloodlines wither and die out over time, but to _comprehend_ the same thing happening to Camelot… it drains a great amount out of him. His home, his legacy, _gone_ like everything else familiar. Not even ruins, he expects. He resists pulling away from Merlin, chest tight and heart so _heavy_ , until he hears it.

They _succeeded_.

So much Arthur wanted for Camelot, so many promises unfulfilled, but he might take Merlin's word for it.

He wets his lips, eyes lowering and then squeezes Merlin's hand. The burning of tears creeps on him, returning, and Arthur denies them, denies himself a proper mourning.

 

*


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SORRY FOR THE WAIT! ♥ Things have been nutty, and I'm about inches away from quitting my horrible job without a backup, and I HOPE YOU ALL ARE DOING OKAY AND ARE EXCITED FOR THESE NEW CHAPTERS!! Cause now we are heading into explicit-rating territory from here, ahahaah. It's time to up the rating a little. ;) Any comments/thoughts appreciated!
> 
> I'd like to thank my newest darling beta [veritably_mad](http://archiveofourown.org/users/veritably_mad/pseuds/veritably_mad/) for helping me out last minute and everyone who has supported me so far. As well as my Britpick [ememmyem](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ememmyem/pseuds/ememmyem) who saved my neck. Half of this fic wouldn't exist without [marlena_darling](http://archiveofourown.org/users/marlena_darling/pseuds/marlena_darling) and I wanna say thank you for taking this journey with me and you've been a best friend to me. I love you lots and this is ours.

*

 

Merlin doesn't feel that Arthur requesting the past, to hear it tumble from his lips instead of glancing down at messy, scrawled words on a page, is to burden him.

Perhaps Arthur _needs_ someone else with him, when that knowledge and inevitability manifests. Something to reassure Arthur that he had not _failed_ his kingdom in his absence. It would be untrue. Not a single person in Camelot had believed their King failed them.

He watches in undisguised amusement as Arthur mutters at him and shakes his head about the subject of Gwaine and Percival.

"No, I suppose you're not a complete fool," Merlin says, egging him on, smiling wider. "Though, I've been wrong before."

After witnessing Arthur's eyes cloud over in hazy sadness, about Gwaine's death, of Sir Leon's, Merlin thinks it's worth getting the scoffing look for the lighthearted jab. He's somewhat thankful for Arthur's silence during his mentioning of Gaius. It had been a long while, but it tore him up, exactly like losing a _father_.

Only fools would seek the path of immortality, the ignorant and the power-hungry, and the weaker hearts of men.

And now, he supposes Arthur had the littlest, bitter taste of its misfortunes.

Especially about Gwen, and Merlin hopes for a moment the other man feels a sense of complacency, of ease. But in truth, none could be taken in knowing the person you had loved with all your heart faded out of your reach. That their life had waned away, as every mortal life did.

Arthur's laugh had not been cheerful, but genuine-sounding if not quiet.

Gwen had _loved_ Arthur, with every fiber of her being, with every shuddering breath before her death, and he couldn't fault her. Not for any of it.

"It appears that you all managed along without me," Arthur croaks out, running a hand over his mouth. His smile is _forced_. "I'm glad. To know it hadn't been all in vain… they all lived on, and to know Guinevere had you, Merlin… thank you."

Arthur's hand still grasps at him, their fingers still twined—giving a hot, low flutter to Merlin's stomach. "We had no choice but to manage," he answers. No choice but to make decisions that would have honoured the best of Arthur's memories, his ethics and morals, and his fortitude.

This moment hangs between them, so fragile.

For a heartbeat, Merlin doesn't consider being _worthy_ of Arthur's thanks. How could he be? So many others had impacted Camelot's history and its development, and done the good that kept its kingdom going for as long as it could. He simply mixed potions, offered council. Did some _magic_.

"You're welcome, then," Merlin says, whispery.

Merlin's hands drift from the work-top, settling back in his lap. His skin flushing from the physical heat of another. He valiantly fights the urge to return them into Arthur's hands.

His greedy longing for Arthur's closeness, his touch, seems in his eyes vapid and petty in comparison to how Arthur must being feeling towards him. That Merlin is now the _only_ person who reminds Arthur of his time, and maybe he wants to physically cling to that familiarity. It's _scary_. It's codependency at its worst.

And it all leads back to Merlin.

Arthur can't understand that… doing this, _indulging_ in this brings repercussions, and feelings that had not died with Arthur, slowly burning him up.

"Since we're on the subject of talking," the warlock says, clearing his throat. Merlin's heartbeat quickens, but his face reads solemn. "I think we've put off last night long enough."

"… I'm not sure what you're on about."

Ever so subtly, there's a flash of panic. But Arthur sounds tired, and he plays it with a hint of irritation and bemusement.

That is, unfortunately, the response Merlin anticipated from his oldest friend. The stoicism concealing his recognition, the fake emotions. He may have believed Arthur, if Merlin had been the naïve and guileless boy from the early days between them. Not weathered down by the slow-turnings of the centuries, as well as his experiences and misfortunes. Not practiced so facilely with deciphering lies from truths.

Merlin's bones are heavy in their joints, and his heart turning to an iron weight. For a moment, Merlin truly feels it sink in just how _different_ he has become, how old. His hands rise, smoothing over his face and raking willowy fingers into the thick, dark mop of his hair.

It's hard to miss the way everything about Merlin seems to sag. In a way, it's unbelievable.

Like Arthur's not watching Merlin, but _someone else_. This isn't the Merlin he left behind, not with this dulled, faraway look to him.

"Arthur, I know I've lied to you for years, and I'll apologise again for it," he says, voice stiff as his expression, but the aspect of blue eyes glinting. A blade's sharpness in them. "I'm attempting to mend my mistakes now by telling you everything I know, but I'm _not_ going to be treated like this. I expected at least the same courtesy."

The stiffness to Merlin's bony features darken over, and there's a slow, cold creep of fear up Arthur's spine. He remains silent, observing.

"Don't ever lie to me," Merlin murmurs, head leaning forward, jaw clenching. "Of all people… it can't be you."

His next breath shallows, choking-thick in the air. He takes another second to compose himself, breaking eye contact. God, this is not how Merlin wanted the conversation to go.

"I don't need an explanation from you, and I'm not… idling your brain with more revelations, on purpose," Merlin says, frowning.

The sharpness, the ancient-ire to his eyes softens to mild, affectionate frustration, as Merlin glances back at him ridged where he sits.

"You've dealt with enough today. I'm not trying to overwhelm you, Arthur. You deserve some rest and some peace and quiet." His mouth tenses up, as he laughs, once, wearisome, "But, if we don't talk about the kiss last night… I _know_ you'll sweep this under the rug and pretend it never happened, like you are doing right now. And, I _won't_ let you do it."

Arthur's receiving a talk like a stubborn child would. Merlin sounds like Uther when Morgana's nightmares reached their peak. Yet, as much as he hates to admit it, Merlin _is_ right. Arthur has taken in more than he thought possible and was on the verge of breaking underneath it all.

He _definitely_ wants to put off this conversation as long as he could.

"The fact of the matter is I lowered your inhibitions, and there was some… confusion."

Merlin's stomach feels like it's doing knots. His eyebrows furrow. And then he senses it approaching, the blabbermouth part of himself invading, like a too-familiar and unwelcome friend.

"It''s unlikely you feel… in _any_ way, romantically. For me. Not—not that it would be bloody awful," he prattles on. "Uhm, it wouldn't be. Bloody awful. Loads of blokes fancy other blokes. No one really cares, and you can get married to another bloke, if you're a bloke—"

Arthur's tempted to put a hand over Merlin's lips and make him _repeat_ himself, go over it calmly and rationally, because—men were able to _marry_ men? There's no shock or disgust in the realisation of it, but there's a deeper resonating that Merlin says it's not _awful_.

What does this?…

" _Merlin_ ," Arthur cuts him off, gruffly, feeling the name catch in his throat.

Stop, just _stop_ it, he wants to yell at the other man.

"I'm not entirely sure what happened… how it _happened_. I don't know how I feel about this, I—" Arthur pauses, his teeth biting down on his lip before he can blurt out all his insecurities. "I didn't mean for this. It was a mistake."

Gwaine and Percival may have been one circumstance, been accepted… and it may not be cause for alarm in this modern age, but to Arthur, it _is_.

*

In his lifetime, countless amounts of people looked upon Merlin in awe and fear. Of his terrible might, of his stony, ageless countenance, of his magic.

His enemies have either fled to lands unknown or have been felled by his hand. The witch-hunters of 16th century Europe tried burning him alive, and when they found themselves unsuccessful, they were subject to the same fate upon the smoking, blazing kindling.

What remained of the Druids avoid him now. Other enchanted creatures learned of Merlin's desire to shroud magic from common knowledge; though it had been for the _protection_ of all, they ostracized him.

Earlier mistakes of his immortal existence, carelessly revealing his magic abilities to others, earned Merlin a selection of harsh words and blanched, repulsed faces.

Storybooks and television programs illustrated Merlin as a wizened, kindly figure. An oddity surrounded by the delights his spells and his charms would bring others. The pride in commanding magic. It _nauseated_ him—their ambrosial caricatures of who he was _supposed_ to be.

How much the legends and myths couldn't grasp the _verity_ of what Merlin suffered to get where he was. And how he willingly did this to himself.

He chose to _wait_ for Arthur, for the return of the Once and Future King. To endure a life of hiding and ridicule and loneliness, watching numbly as the wagons became motor vehicles built of chrome and rubber. Women's suffrage bred new expectations. Wars followed by negotiations, only to cultivate uprisings and more elaborate strings of death.

Because there was nothing else _left_ for Merlin… but the waiting.

And he had, sometimes clumsily grasping at that flicker of hope inside him, disregarding that it was so small and often shadowed in doubt.

(It had not _all_ been bad. _The waiting_. He had traveled.

Met a Phoenix—a portly, brown man residing in southern India, with pupils that glowed hues eerily like embers. Swam the Balun Cove in Otek Bisevo, Croatia, and among the silvery minnows. Tasted gazpacho cream and marinated aubergine in Austria. Settled to rest a village alarmed by the presence of an Abura-akago in Otsu.

Thought he had seen faces from ages-past; a man and woman during the Jazz Age, with Lancelot's eyes and Gwen's soft smile, holding each other silently and lovingly in an embrace, sheltered in an unlit alley.)

The look in Arthur's eyes, though dulled out with agitation, is the fear Merlin knows so well.

Sickness, like bile, churns and rises up the back of his throat. Merlin's hand reflexively jolts to his bare neck, circling it. He wants the fear _gone_. Wiped clean from Arthur's mind. Arthur's supposed to feel _safe_ here, enough to open up to his friend and share this home with him as long as he needed it.

Perhaps that's why Merlin started babbling, trying to let the moment float downstream, and he does clam up—mouth closing so fast that his jaw clicks noisily—as Arthur cuts him off, resigned in expression. Arthur's teeth drag to his lip, a nervous habit Merlin could not be certain he noticed before. Arthur _thought_ … ah.

'Mistake' floods over him, arctic and disorientating, like a plunge into deep, winter water. Merlin's throat clenches harder.

*

This time, Arthur can very well remember what he said, and his words repeat in his mind.

Stupid, _stupid_.

Could he sound more unsure of himself? Granted, the incredible feeling of vulnerability is expected, but he doesn't have to show it. Not now, not like this.

Yet, there's nothing else to do except stare, and Arthur doesn't even want to do that. He wants to avert his eyes, to go into the next room and _breathe_. It's like he hasn't gotten a chance to do it since Merlin handed him the tome. Instead, Arthur remains seated, witnessing Merlin's hand running over his throat in a nervous gesture.

He knows there's a discussion to follow… Merlin _cared_ for him, but not in that way. Not in the way perhaps Sir Gwaine and Sir Percival loved each other. Of course not.

Even if his manservant had been accepting of them, it meant nothing about his desires. Or Arthur's own for that matter, feeling steadily more and more clouded.

But then, there was _Freya_.

Freya, the Druid girl that Merlin loved so deeply that it soaked into the pages of his story for all who held it to see. Who in the beginning, Merlin had been ready to leave Camelot for. Arthur hates the stir of anger inside him. His mind flashes to Guinevere, his queen and his heart's wonder.

The one who in his thoughts, he had still been married to. Until Arthur's own reality broke apart that memory. He had loved her, still did, and the feelings had been returned.

So _where_ on earth can that possibly place he and Merlin…?

"I was only uncomfortable, because… I thought I had taken advantage of you." Merlin's eyes blink suddenly, as if he's fighting off a sting or an itch to them. "I don't think I can express this anymore clearly to you, Arthur. You mean more to me than you understand."

Arthur's mouth feels dry, cottony. All of him restless.

This isn't the discussion he expected. Not at all.

"But if I have to say something about it… I don't regret the kiss last night. Only that it was ill-timed. If that makes things uneasy between us, then I'm alright with putting it past us."

Merlin _doesn't_ regret… wait.

Arthur's beating heart pounds, and his chest gives an impossible leap. Tthe tension coiling in his body not releasing, but _melting_. He feels like an idiot, quite similar to his first encounter with Princess Mithian before introducing her to Camelot's grounds. Only, this is _very much_ different.

"No," Arthur finally responses, voice distant. "No, I don't think we should… put it past us."

He's certain now. He knows where Merlin stands, even if it seems impossible, but this is the moment of truth. It's time for Arthur to decide what he wants. And, the answer is simple.

He _wants_ Merlin.

The warmth and comfort Merlin provides. He wants the chance to offer it in return, to vanquish the age and pain out of Merlin's eyes. He needs this. Needs _him_.

Merlin's already on his feet, clearing up their bowls.

Without thinking about it, Arthur reaches out, wrapping his hand tightly around Merlin's thin wrist. He turns his head, searching Merlin's expression. Arthur has made his decision. He won't give himself a moment for hesitation.

Arthur joins him on his feet, tugging sharply on Merlin's arm.

The move is quick, but he lands his aim with precision. Arthur's lips once more connect with Merlin's, and his free hand comes up to grasp the side of Merlin's face. Now that he can touch, kiss him without the haze of alcohol, Arthur isn't going to waste this.

He's struggled with impulse in times of high emotion, when Arthur's body urges to act, and it takes all of his remaining control to rein himself back in. This time… this time he doesn't think he has to, and that feels incredibly good.

Arthur's already filled to the brim with words unsaid; he sways from tension to fear to anger, with the pressure of what feels like of an ocean. Now, his mind shuts that off, focusing on standing and Merlin, and pressing on the plush, pink mouth within reach.

No more secrets, no more lingering desires. This is the truest and _purest_ want summoned to life.

*

Merlin's hands long for human-warm touch, his skin longs for it, the nexus of his magic thudding imperceptible, in rhythm to his pulse.

As infuriating as it is, there come times in Merlin's life where he damned well _can't_ read Arthur's moods, and here is one. Claiming that the subject need not drop, and then Arthur's eyes looking away on purpose. The table apparently has a more interesting outlook on the situation.

What does Arthur _want_ from him? Was he willing to forgive the kiss?

Brushing it off for the moment, the warlock says nothing, snatching up his half-empty stew bowl and walking about the kitchen table. Tossing the bowl haphazardly into the sink.

"If that's what you want," he mumbles, tongue feeling swollen and too-large in his dry mouth.

Merlin joins Arthur on the other side of the table, pale fingers outstretched for Arthur's bowl. They never make it to their intended destination.

When Arthur's hand flies to his wrist, seizing him in a hold that signals Merlin's attention, it draws darker blue eyes up, inquisitive. Arthur's own eyes, staring right back up, flash emotions too abrupt and muddled to unravel.

He's about to ask if there's something wrong, when the same hand propels him forward. Merlin stumbles. Arthur's wood stool nearly topples over in his rush to stand. Merlin's answer is a demanding, warm brush of lips to his.

Arthur's methods are clumsily executed at best, but it does nothing to quell the igniting heat spreading blissfully from the core of Merlin. His own body recognises the undeniable attraction, the earnest nature of the man crowding his face, cupping his hand lightly to Merlin's cheek—sooner than Merlin's perplexed senses wraps around the possibility.

Arthur _—he—_

A shocked, tiny noise blooms from Merlin's lips, parting them slightly to Arthur's mouth.

He's lightheaded all of a sudden, every centimeter of him tingling with the swell of compressed heat and what has to be thrumming magic enveloping that heat, powering it. And he _needs_ to be anchored down, down to this insurmountable moment, before it slips from him.

One of Merlin's hands rises slumberous, hovering over the nape of Arthur's neck before touching there. When he parts his lips faintly, Arthur's nerve strengthens and it's all the confirmation he needs. Arthur uses his fingertips to grasp a bit harder, enough to remind him that this is happening.

He moves closer, adjusting his head. It's a reminder to slow down; years of missed opportunity could not be made up in one kiss.

The tangled weaving of Merlin's reeling, lurching thoughts—not completely dissimilar to the actions of a feral animal enmeshed to a hunter's net—only begins to loosen its knots as the the rising presence of Merlin's magic disjoints them.

Instinctive as it is strong, the summoning fabricated of the earth and its very branches, it prickles softly at him, at the spreading warmth from his core. It dances the hairs on Merlin's arms and his neck, and murmuring to him: _hal._

_Õu bist hal._

Arthur's fingers don't grasp at his face with violent, clear dominance, when they curl slightly to rest on Merlin's cheekbone. He treats the other man like he's a hallowed presence, like perhaps treating Merlin too harshly now would allow him to fade off into a wisp of smoke.

As if this all can't be so, not with its strange, dreamy quality.

The Arthur he knows so well hardly gave consideration in his shows of passionate rage and irritation towards his bumbling manservant, throwing pitchers of water or pillows—then again, the bumbling manservant had been a bit of an act for Merlin, as well.

A puff of air escapes Arthur's mouth, damp with heat, falling against Merlin's lips.

The edge of the work-top presses tightly and sharply to the small of Merlin's back, as the ex-king cramps him there without pressing their bodies up. Blue eyes little slivers of colour where Arthur's eyelids droop together. Merlin's hand steadies himself, clutching at the same edge.

The realigned kiss is gentle, aiming for Merlin's lower lip and drawing another audible, tiny noise.

Merlin's fingers widen their arch, stroking tentatively along the finer, gold hairs trailing up Arthur's neck. It's almost laughable, actually.

A _gentle_ Arthur? To Merlin? He might assume the appearance of Gwaine soon, risen from the dead and in priest-wear, having abandoned his drunken, promiscuous ways.

Merlin has to rationalise this.

 _Has to_.

Has to take the objective step back and ask Arthur if this is truly what is needed, this sense of proximity in their friendship. Intimacy, more often romantic, could shatter apart the solid foundation of a good friendship, if observing the whole of humanity for his time revealed anything about relationships.

He doesn't want _their_ friendship marred, not one column… which is why Merlin insisted on speaking to Arthur about the 'confused' kiss, that… wasn't entirely one-sided concerning the other party, he sees, and… oh to _hell_ with this.

Squeezing his eyes shut with renewed determination, Merlin shifts his weight on his hands both firmly on the work-top and arches his body upwards, sliding himself back onto the granite-shine surface, legs crooking open. Somehow managing the impressive, though lumbering, feat of not breaking the contact of the kiss.

He utters a small, vibrating groan of effort flush to Arthur's mouth.

Merlin brings his arms to the other man's neck, bringing _him_ in until their chests met. Legs tangling to him.

One hand burrowing into thin, soft hair and the other clinging, twisting into the fleecy material of Arthur's shirt. Feels the inseam of his combats brush to Arthur's hips. Feels their mouths melding, slow and wet, losing the distinction of where he ends and Arthur begins.

*

The decision to go slower had been a forced one, but Arthur doesn't mind.

Well, not by much.

Of course he wants _more_ ; Arthur wants that desperate, hot clash of lips the evening before, only this time with the experience fully. He wants to know what it feels like to kiss Merlin in such a way without the looming suspicion the other man is merely caught up in the moment.

Given now he figures it's untrue.

This isn't how he's used to being with Merlin. Arthur understands he was abrasive, and they generally shoved and messed around. This is softer, more controlled, and it's _alright_ by Arthur. This is how it could be from now on.

He's kissing Merlin, and Merlin's responses are desire-hungry, so there's hardly any room to complain. Especially when Arthur so easy pulls those responses.

His eyes are half-lidded, just to gauge Merlin's expressions, but open in shock as Merlin pulls them, hauling himself up.

It's a movement Arthur (admittedly) thought about but didn't expect. Their lips never separate, and he shudders as the short groan reverberates against his mouth.

Merlin's hold on him is unrelenting and tight, _demanding_ in a silent way Arthur only feels partly uncertain that Merlin could exhibit. Their hips collide in, his groin rubbing against the front of Merlin's trousers, and a clearly _approving_ sound leaves Arthur. And his mouth.

The long fingers in his hair won't let him leave, and Arthur's _had_ it.

If Merlin isn't going to hold back, then sure as hell he isn't either.

Now that the smaller man is propped up on the table, Arthur's hands find their way to Merlin's waist at arm-level. His fingers clench at his torso, Arthur's thumbs dragging along the hem of Merlin's shirt as he urges them closer. It's like fading together into one, and Arthur thinks he loves every moment.

They're together, from their rapid breathing to the continuous, languid exchange of kisses.

*

The little shudders and shivers, electrifying Arthur's body, mimic their resonance where Merlin keeps Arthur fastened to him—without surrendering to doubt, or a word of complaint.

For a man gone centuries and centuries without the routine of physical intimacy (neither of them, Merlin considers more deeply, somberly), it only seems difficult that Arthur reacts so effortlessly. He gives everything back in his actions, and _that_ itself is no surprise at all.

Arthur loved selflessly, blind in his trust and to any flaws in those who were permitted such a rare thing. He loved with all the strength of his heart. A startling quality that Merlin caught sight of in a handful of times, often to Gwen and to Uther, and that draws him still to this impossible man.

The race of his heart, quick in his breath. Sensations that grow noticeable, heightened, and Merlin fiercely savours them coming from Arthur. His fingers clenching in that mess of golden-blond hair.

The kale from the stew leaves a well-flavoured zest coating Arthur's mouth, and Merlin's desperate for more, to learn every inch of him, chart Arthur out in fingers and lips and teeth, in ways Merlin never imagined he would be able to delve so luxuriously into.

This _is_ real. Dreamy, or strange, or not. Arthur is here. With him.

Their hips thrust, scarcely needing to drag against the thicker fabric, to _feel_ the weight and hardness inside Arthur's jeans, Merlin's mouth cracks open. He emits a heavy gasp, jolting his own hips to press back, needing more.

He breathes out Arthur's name, at last separating the kiss to roll his head and bare his throat.

Eyelids quivering faintly, the irises beneath swirling a bright gold.

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> " _Hal_ " means " _safe_ ".  
> " _Õu bist hal_ " means " _You are safe_ ".


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's **[art piece](http://calamity-annie.tumblr.com/post/117634049598/ou-bist-hal-you-are-safe-some-kissy-merthur)** was done by the MAGNIFICENT **[calamity-annie](http://calamity-annie.tumblr.com/)** just look how amazing, wow. She surprised me by telling me how much she wanted to do this, and I'm eternally grateful. If anyone ever does ANYTHING as a tribute or add-on to this fic, I'm gladly feature it. ♥♥ And, thank you, dearest! It's a beautiful addition to the story being told!
> 
> I'd like to thank my newest beta [veritably_mad](http://archiveofourown.org/users/veritably_mad/pseuds/veritably_mad/) for helping me out last minute and everyone who has supported me so far. As well as my Britpick [ememmyem](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ememmyem/pseuds/ememmyem) who saved my neck. Half of this fic wouldn't exist without [marlena_darling](http://archiveofourown.org/users/marlena_darling/pseuds/marlena_darling) and I wanna say thank you for taking this journey with me and you've been a best friend to me. I love you lots and this is ours.

 

 

 

 

*

He's kissing Merlin.

Never before has he felt such urgency in such a thing as a _kiss_.

Arthur doesn't have to tread softly, no longer on unsteady ground, with the sensation of warmth swelling in his belly like a fire. _Hot_ , and upon him in a flash.

While stronger in nature than kisses Arthur was used to, it's not savage, dark and all-consuming.

It's longing and _necessity_ to explore, to disregard the boundaries set by years between them and perhaps yield to temptations Arthur was used to blocking out. Yes, _perhaps_. It's fast, not as gentle, but underneath there's still tenderness Arthur demands to stay.

This is Merlin, _his_ Merlin, not just anyone—and if he wasn't so hazy, distracted by Merlin's fingers rolling against his scalp, Arthur may have questioned what that meant.

His lungs burn, unnoticed. The rest of him too invested in the shape of Merlin's lips, as well as the occasional gasp that escapes him. _God_ , the noises are driving Arthur insane and setting him on high alert. Everything's in clearer detail than ever, and Arthur experiences it all, all he can be allowed. A taste, a touch, maybe to grip on Merlin's dark locks.

Yet, Arthur's hands occupy Merlin's waist, fingers burying under the layers of his garments. His thumbs slide into the belt loops, right when Merlin's hips push forward once more. It's an intoxicating drag causes a sharp exhale from Arthur's mouth. His mind spins, but he hears the sound of his name. And it's _addictive_.

A shudder claims him, latching onto the indescribable tone Arthur catches in Merlin's voice, and it only adds dry kindling to the fire. Lips suddenly part. Arthur holds himself back from chasing Merlin's visibly swollen, reddened mouth, glancing at the exposed neck.

He ducks his head, moving in and attaching his lips there.

Pale, soft skin, and vulnerable, and Arthur plans on taking advantage of it. Slowly, Arthur shifts his lips, pressing down, feeling for Merlin's pulse-point jumping.

It feels like a stormy current coursing through Arthur every time he touches Merlin, racing between them. No explanation for the hairs on Arthur's forearms prickling or the jitters, but he craves _more_ , as it increases. There's whispers inside his mind to lower his hands and pull open Merlin's trousers, to properly _feel_ his prick rubbing against Arthur's bare skin.

The way Merlin so readily opens himself for Arthur, simply tilts his head back and allows Arthur to do as he pleases… it speaks volumes of _trust_.

His lips drift, tasting the cleanness of Merlin's skin, open mouth scraping the bob in Merlin's throat. But, he keeps his hands where they are. For now.

Before Arthur knows he's done it, his tongue darts out.

Curiosity seizes him, as does Merlin, and he's glad for it.

Keep going, taste, touch, _mark_ —the remembrance of what Merlin said, that he was _his_ , and Arthur's alone, is enough.

*

Sorcery rouses his flesh and bones, humming in Merlin's ribs and stomach.

It's charged with the awareness of the soft, deliberate pressure of Arthur's hands skimming, resting towards Merlin's hips.

Arthur _did_ this.

Merlin's entire face feels hot, like the blood running in his veins and capillaries are a liquid-blaze.

Arthur is the catalyst for everything.

For painful thousand-year-old memories, for desiring an embrace and companionship, for Merlin to be _Merlin_ once more. For his magic to spur on an ache within him, jerking at the fibres of an old-old-soul, and to sing a tuneless reverence. _Arthur Pendragon, born of Nimueh's sorcery._

He, with the blood of innocent Druids on unfledged, sorrowful hands. He, who broke tradition by marrying a serving girl and building his people's respect for him as King with ideas of peace, not fear. He, destined to die for Camelot no matter what Merlin tried to do to avoid it.

Merlin could not break the ties of fate, or stall them. Their lives were foretold even before being conceived, and if Merlin's destiny now is to clutch on tightly to the man in front of him, keening in murmured exhales and shamelessness, then he's _happily_ lost.

Lips dragging along Merlin's neck, opening and pressing with heat, as he leans back on instinct.

Arthur's mouth glides where Merlin's artery stands out clenching. When the wet tip of Arthur's tongue flicks out, whether or not it had been an accidental move, Merlin's stomach takes an invisible rear up. He drops his hand out of fine, pale blond hair to join its partner, this time fisting the back of Arthur's grey shirt until the fabric strains in bunches.

Merlin's eyes blink open, lost of their blue colour, the swirling gold brighter. He _has to_ —

Fingers loosen their feverish, knuckling grip, easing away.

Merlin's hands hover to Arthur's face at his throat, as the blond man continues planting lingering and harsh kisses. Hands cradle him steady and guide Arthur's head, lifting his chin up. He seems to let Merlin do this, eyes relaxed, peering back.

" _Dollophead_ ," Merlin says, low and affectionate. He sets a feather-light touch of lips to Arthur's, nudging their foreheads, and half-chuckles. "Look whatchu've done now."

"Are you complaining?" he murmurs, subconsciously tightening his grasp on Merlin's belt loops, but no longer humping against him. While joking, all the same Arthur watches Merlin carefully.

But, Merlin says nothing about it, and he doesn't want to direct away, not a millimeter to stray.

This is something Merlin longed for, with the burden of discretion, since his time in Camelot's kingdom. When he would lay upon his back with arms crossed and ankles propped and tucked on the soggy, cold cot in Gaius' quarters, the darkness of eve flooding every corner of the tiny, cramped room. He would hold a single lighted memory of the day to his mind's eye, muscles sagging and his eyelids closed.

Eventually, as the years of Merlin's service carried on, the memory would be about Arthur.

A gleeful shine of summery-blue eyes meeting Merlin's while they spoke to each other, and during their trip they would resort to arguing loudly along the river's edge.

A proud smile, exposing a flash of teeth and gums, taking expanse of Arthur's strongly-boned features. His leathered riding glove clamped onto Merlin's dirtied, sleeved wrist, heaving the slighter boy to his feet and absently dusting off Merlin's shoulder.

A glimpse of hip-bones, protruding from seemingly touchable skin, and it was no different than any other time Merlin oversaw Arthur's bath. He knew the many fleshy angles of sinew and tendon, where hard training prepared him. Raised bumps, mottled pink and silvery white; some areas where the scars marked along Arthur's abdomen and collarbone had pitted appearances— wounds sunken while healing. Scars from battles and missions gone awry, and Arthur's own carelessness about his safety where someone was in mortal peril.

Thick-headed, self-sacrificing prat he was.

Merlin remembers curling his legs to himself on the thin cot, wrapping his arms round his knees. He would turn his face to his pillow and breathe in deep, counting them out, dispelling the images of Arthur's sturdy, powerfully-made body.

Just to avoid fondling himself. To avoid colour-bright fantasies of those scars gently nudged by Merlin's blunt, scratching fingernails, Arthur's blue, blue eyes pinning him, of that body moving in a quick-slow tandem with him, _inside_ Merlin. He wanted to know what that _felt_ like—Arthur's cock enveloped within him, too thick and too paramount in an ever-hot drag of pressure.

The rope on Merlin's control now slips free. Every iota of Merlin's being lackadaisical, teeming with serenity and good-natured haughtiness.

Arthur wants him _back_. He feels it in the subtlest hints of it, in the minute tics, in the shudders of fanning, hot breath to Merlin's neck and the point of his chin.

There's no more Merlin asks for.

A soft, unimpressed snort leaves his nostrils, cuing Merlin's amusement at the smirking comment.

It's when Arthur urges them closer with a rough, tugging motion, that it sends Merlin's gut delightfully swooping once more.

"Suppose it's better than snogging a real toad," Merlin pretends to consider, mock-thoughtfully frowning. "You've spent a night on my pillow, and yet I'm _still_ waiting on the bit where you turn handsome…"

"If you call me a toad again, I'll _keep_ your pillow and you'll be accustomed to sleeping without it," Arthur replies, but his tone lacks displeasure.

Any evidence that he's heedful about the bizarre, gilded colour in Merlin's eyes—the physical manifestation of magic conjured at great lengths, waiting for release—Arthur does not say. But, Merlin _needs_ to expel it, and lamentably, to rupture this extraordinary moment that came over them, or chance possible and unintended backlash.

Merlin's hands lower as he maneuvers Arthur's fingers apart from his belt.

He offers an honest and patient smile to Arthur's disappointed bemusement, gold-glow eyes crinkling with it, scooting off the kitchen work-top.

"I'll be a few minutes, no more, I swear."

He lightly squeezes the tanned fingers in his capture, releasing them and walking towards the parlour, and for the entrance's door.

The rainstorm has tapered off from its previous ferocity, leaving a tepid air, glistening to the grass beneath Merlin's feet and the blood-red sky of a setting day.

Merlin crouches down, flattening his palm to the brambly, wet texture of the earth. Feeling its long-seeking relief with the moisture, feeling… _everything_. Every line of humanity, the dull glow of spirits, the penetrating, buzzing souls of the magical creatures still left in this world. He even feels the weight and agitation of Arthur's footsteps inside the cottage.

They are all connected. Everyone.

All because of the raw magic drifting around them, unseen.

A spell tickles at the back of Merlin's throat.

" _Blóstmian_ ," he whispers, head bowed, shivering unconsciously with the exhilaration.

The first thrum of his magic soaks straight into the ground, following heavier waves, and Merlin's breathing shakes as he flushes warmly from toe to cheek. The last raindrop to fall that day lands on the very tip of Merlin's nose, causing him to look up.

(Well, what else may he have expected?)

Merlin gazes at his garden covered plumb with camellias, a broad grin spreading to his mouth. With their petals blushed salmon-pink and individually heart-shaped, if one were to squint closely. The _middlemist reds_ , he recalls. The rarest flowers to exist.

Only two places managed to cultivate them, a garden hidden away in New Zealand and a quaint, private greenhouse in this country.

Merlin had the peculiar opportunity to meeting the man given their namesake in 1804, notorious for attempting to pass them out on crowded public spaces.

A bit of a foolhardy romantic who stenched of drink, but also a harmless bloke—with the uncanny gift of the Sight. " _Y'ull be brin'gig the lilies, m'boy_ ," he slurred, clawing Merlin's sleeve dramatically. The whites of his eyes bloodshot. " _R'uhturn to the water where y'uh cast 'em all .. n'misty water. Y'ull find h'em there._ "

Merlin thought little of their encounter, since that day, and now realises his mistake too late.

John Middlemist predicted the day Merlin returned to the Lake of Avalon, for Arthur's return, and what flowers Merlin held in his hands that same day.

"Daft," he says to no-one particular, Merlin's face remaining stretched into the same pensive grin.

*

From the short distance, the colour of Merlin's eyes are so incredibly visible, but the familiar blue is gone, replaced with a solid, brilliant gold-glimmer.

The look of it is startling, and he recognizes the stormy current through him makes more sense.

 _Magic_.

He had seen it at work before, in the truest, most deadly forms on expeditions. But, Arthur sees it in flickers, glimpses at best, right across from him, and he's caught off-guard. For the lack of a better word, it's _beautiful_. The sorcery is palatable, and yet tame. Merlin at his most natural.

Arthur thinks he's been staring too long, when fingers pry him away from Merlin. He dutifully steps backwards, and no less confused as Merlin slides himself onto his feet. Arthur doesn't understand where Merlin's going, but reassured at the purposeful touch. Merlin vanishes from the kitchen.

Then, he's left alone.

As the sounds of footsteps fade, and Arthur's heart calms its frantic pace, the gravity of the moment sets in. He kissed Merlin, yes. It's been done before. Not a _chaste_ kiss, no. One that demanded indulgence and surrender to his whole being, and Arthur had _given_ _into_ it.

Subconsciously, Arthur's tongue grazes his lower lip. A slow grin lifts his mouth as Arthur smooths his hair down. When his heart picks up, quickening once more… maybe, he shouldn't be alone. Not just yet. And besides—Merlin _hadn't_ told him to stay, had he?

In a way, he had. It's all the same to Arthur. The idiot should absolutely know better by now.

He moves hurriedly for the cottage's door, pulling it open. As soon as Arthur's foot is over the threshold, he stops. Stops and witnesses.

There, in the middle of everything, like he's part of the landscape himself, is Merlin.

The red sky, the water-dotted plants. Flowers, delicate and matching the hue of the clouds. As if spring blossoms into _life_ for a single instant, right before Arthur's eyes. Their stems reach upwards, and flower petals unfurl.

It's… _awe-inspiring_.

*

Merlin's palm lifts from the sparse patch of grass left in a sea of pink, swaying flowers.

He stands and turns in place, glancing at the cottage door where Arthur eyes him and what he created.

Somewhere between wanting to preserve the middlemist reds, and heading back to the door, Merlin feels ridiculous wading through the flowers, wincing to himself as clusters of them smash mercilessly under the thick, faux-leather soles of his buckled boots.

Arthur's concentration returns to him, and he leans himself on the door-frame, his arms crossing his chest.

"I had no idea you cared so much for gardening," Arthur speaks up, finding this the easiest route between dismissive and complimentary.

"Part of the forest had suffered from the construction demolition several years ago, and a fire," Merlin says, smiling. "When I discovered I could, I restored it. Didn't want anything missing."

It goes unspoken, but his motives for this may have been Arthur. For the chance his king would see the trees and leaves and underbrush, and remember it all. The forest is still obviously different, but _enough_ for Arthur to know where he is, which direction to go, even if one would lead him to the empty lands where Camelot once stood tall and proud.

For the past twenty years, he done everything in his power, preventing the eradication of the woods Arthur grew up in, preventing greedy hands and interests and business from consuming this land.

The woods settled quietly with Merlin's protection, miles of it with his wards against dark magic (though, not as stable as the ones Merlin laid around his cottage— _those_ magical wards would hold until Merlin drew his very last breath, he's certain of that).

Merlin's smile droops at its corners, from its mirth, as he halts at the entryway, dirt-covered boots and all. He glances down instead of the person nearby.

"Sorry for leaving like that. I… I needed a moment to myself." (Which is what Merlin deserved for going without human touch for so long? How could he have thought it would be _alright_?)

"My magic acted on my body's heightened reactions, and needed to be… dealt with safely. This doesn't normally happen," Merlin adds, side-eying him now. "The magic that brought you back is _strong_ and must be lingering in bursts… it tangled with mine. It shouldn't be like this all the time."

 _Contained_ , _controlled_ , it's disconcerting to imagine.

Arthur chooses to dismiss the thought. Magic, especially what forced him to return, isn't what needs to be discussed.

"I'm sure it won't," he replies, blankly. "You seem to have your wits about you, Merlin—for once."

Looking back downwards, Merlin uses the bottom edge of the door-frame to scrape away the congealing mud from his boots. His thumb shoves away a clump of grass from the heel, wiping it off on his henley. The warlock lets the silence permeate, his tongue gently pushing against the inside of his cheek.

"Let's get some horses," Merlin announces, placid and musing, eyes on his shoe. "Two of the thoroughbred palfrey, just like the ones from the stables." He sets his foot down, straightening his back. A yawn creeps up on him suddenly, and Merlin struggles against it, forearm to his mouth.

"Who knows," he says. "I might even saddle yours for you."

"I don't need a horse, Merlin."

Despite the rambling, the other man glimpses once again the hint of a past tense. As if Camelot's a distant memory, _nostalgic_. For Merlin it was, but for Arthur?

For Arthur, it _still_ feels like he's left his kingdom for a short time, for Camlann and for the battle against Morgana's men.

The _terror_ of acknowledging this is real, no matter what Arthur has read, no matter what Merlin tells him. And he can't say it, can't think on it either. Arthur _knows_ when someone is meaning to be kind with him, and while appreciated, it's _not_ coddling he needs. What Arthur needs, what he _thinks_ he needs, is to focus on _this_ , and ignore the rest. Focus on Merlin.

Trying to break the awareness, Merlin shoots him a more enthusiastic grin.

"Anyway, you should see the garden during summer. Loads of vegetables." Merlin says, holding up both of his hands to measure the emptiness. "Cabbages as big as your head—which, _yours_ is actually quite larger than the average human head, I say. Too much hot air."

An eye-roll.

"At least _all_ of my head is proportionate, unlike yours," Arthur responses, uncrossing his arms and flicking on one of Merlin's ears.

He yelps, cupping at it and sending Arthur a glare that reads part astonishment, part indignation. Merlin follows Arthur inside, shutting the cottage door behind him manually and locking it.

"If it's _you_ , I can see why my magic is agitated," he mutters under his breath, grumpily, working off his shoes and boots on the rug.

"I _heard_ that," Arthur says, doing the same. "What's the matter now?"

Merlin sleepily rubs at his eyes, wrinkling his nose. "Good, what least your hearing still works…"

"You're tired." It's a patronizing comment, but he honestly doesn't care if Arthur can tell how exhausted he is.

The thickly-constructed, wooden door at Merlin's back feels strangely comfortable, as everything around him lulls to a sort-of haze. He leans there with his upper body weighed down, head sluggishly thudding. Merlin's eyes slit open a little in defiance.

" _Wh'err_ have you that idea…?" he slurs out, lips barely parting. The events of the day, running through the rainstorm to speak with the Vilia, reliving the end of Camelot's days, letting go of the barriers between him and his feelings for Arthur, and then unleashing so much magic at once…

But he doesn't want to give Arthur the satisfaction of being right about that.

Doesn't need a bigger ego… than what was… _already there_ …

Merlin's back slowly drags against the door, as the sort-of haze darkens with the closing of his eyelids, knees weakening under him.

*

The battle's already won, it seems.

While Merlin is stubborn, irritatingly so, he loses composure right in front of Arthur's eyes.

Arthur raises his eyebrows pointedly at the slurring question, giving him an ' _oh please_ ' expression. Merlin's entire body weight practically relies on the door to keep him upright, if the garbled words aren't an indicator.

He opens his mouth to snap back, to take advantage of the laggard response time in Merlin's case, but all that comes out is a "woah!" when Arthur notices Merlin slipping down.

Instinctively, he rushes forward, grasping Merlin up and pressing his own side to the door to stabilize them both from careening. Arthur adjusts the loop of his arms and grunts, heaving Merlin up, an arm slipping around his thin upper torso to grab a hold. The gesture mimics the morning of his return a bit too well, but now with their roles reversed.

And thankfully, under separate circumstances.

"Come on," he sighs, heaving Merlin again. "You can't fall asleep standing up, you dolt."

Even half-conscious Merlin is no great wonder to carry, and Arthur gets them into the bedroom without a problem. _Almost_ , because it's a bit difficult to focus with the tired warmth radiating off the other man, but Arthur simply readjusts his grip and moves on.

The room is dark with the sun descending behind the treeline. Arthur nudges the door with his foot.

The few last steps towards the bed are filled with manhandling, albeit gentler, instead of dropping Merlin down.

Arthur shifts to his right side facing the bed, quickly reaching over and tugging the covers back, making enough room for Merlin. Then, after a satisfied half-nod, he turns and lowers him on the bed. Tossing the blankets over him, Arthur glances down, hand once more absently tugging on the folds.

Just for the briefest of moments, his fingers itch to card through Merlin's fringe, smoothing the mess from his eyes and Arthur berates himself. He doesn't know _how_ to do _gentle_ with Merlin, but it needs to be… gradual, much slower. They need more time.

*

Merlin likes this darkness cocooning him, making him lightheaded and stripping away his worries.

He hardly registers his balance, or Arthur's steadying hip against him, or his arms limp as the other man leads him to the corridor. Merlin can _drift_ , light on his bare feet, warm and _hal_.

Someone murmuring to him; someone with muscular arms and the citrusy hint of his shampoo; someone who took deliberate care to allow Merlin to rest his flopping head on his pillow before lifting his legs onto the mattress. He wanted to thank them, open his heavy, heavy eyes.

But instead, Merlin burrows down under quilted blanket covers, curling his arms protectively in front of himself, and dozes.

Right through Arthur's goodnight, and an instinctively fond, missed opportunity, and Merlin's bedroom door shutting firmly.

*


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MAJOR PROJECTS ARE **OVER**. I'm back with chapter updates, and excited to hear from you lovelies again! :) Thanks for being so patient, and ily lots, and WHO IS **EXCITED** FOR NEXT MONTH? So much going on! Colin Morgan everywhere (Humans and Testament of Youth), tv shows coming back, and I've got my birthday on the 18th! Eeee! Anyway, yes, if you have anything to gush over or have a comment, feel free to leave it! I missed you guys! ♥  
>  (Also: extra bonus points to whoever catches the two fandom references outside this fandom.)
> 
> I'd like to thank my newest beta [veritably_mad](http://archiveofourown.org/users/veritably_mad/pseuds/veritably_mad/) for helping me out last minute and everyone who has supported me so far. As well as my Britpick [ememmyem](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ememmyem/pseuds/ememmyem) who saved my neck. Half of this fic wouldn't exist without [marlena_darling](http://archiveofourown.org/users/marlena_darling/pseuds/marlena_darling) and I wanna say thank you for taking this journey with me and you've been a best friend to me. I love you lots and this is ours.

 

*

Morning is a tad hellish.

He rudely awakens from a content, dreamless sleep to Gaius meowing loudly in his ear, breaks several eggs from the carton by accident, burns his arm on the cooker (also by accident, but that doesn't stop Arthur from making pointless, snippy comments about Merlin's oafishness), and they never leave _on_ time.

And now, dealing with an irritated Arthur tagging alongside him on crowded pavements, asking ludicrously _obvious_ questions about the current age (that aren't so obvious to Arthur, so, Merlin can't be _completely_ brassed off). The solid, red brick wall—a few feet away from the entrance of the shoppe—looks awfully tempting to knock his head against. Several times.

But for Arthur himself, he questions the necessity of this.

Going into town in the early hours proves just as chaotic as the eve, if not more-so. There's even more of those blasted _cars_ , more oddly-attired people littering the road, and a continuous string of _things_ that Arthur doesn't understand.

Including having to go to what Merlin calls 'a costume shoppe' for their damned garments.

"Are you telling me there are no armories either?" he asks, frowning with scrutiny. "This looks like a joke, Merlin. I understand they think our time is pretend, but _really_."

Merlin's lips loosen up, forming a sarcastic smile.

"Yes, Arthur," he says, dryly. "There are no more armories. There are no Places of Arms. No minstrel's galleries, no solars, no blacksmiths getting paid in lumps of gold. Gold isn't even a currency anymore. Look."

Merlin reaches into a threadbare hem of a jean pocket, presenting a handful of change and some crumbled notes. "See, there's a 50 p here. Two of these coins make a pound." Merlin's fingers curl to his palm, tapping on the pence coins. "The highest note in pounds is a 50 pound note. But I have five tenners so it's basically the same thing…"

Deep blue eyes met Arthur's own, and he sighs, energy draining away.

He knows Arthur's ' _I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about_ ' expression too well.

"Well… you don't need to remember this… exactly."

Merlin quickly pockets the money away, ignoring an eye-roll, and he glances down at their intertwined hands. As they passed through the woods, starting to enter civilization, Arthur wordlessly snatched onto Merlin's hand, determined, with that little crinkle of skin in the middle of Arthur's forehead. No wonder anyone passing them gave a mix of curious and disapproving stares. "Arthur, you can… let go of my hand."

Arthur's sweaty palm releases, and even though Merlin had been the one to suggest it, something akin to disappointment bubbles in him.

The other man takes the liberty of opening the door, and Arthur's frown remains set in place as he gazes at the rack in the immediate entrance.

Before Merlin can open his mouth, he yells out, "What is this _nonsense_? My god, I'm _not_ some bloody court jester—I'm _NOT_ wearing that _ridiculous_ outfit."

Merlin has only been in the town's costume shoppe once or twice, truthfully; he never witnessed someone so appalled by a row of colourful, felt-cut hats before. His mouth presses together, as if he is considering a serious thought, examining them up close.

"Are you sure?" Merlin asks, innocently, plucking up a scarlet-coloured one with a giant metal bell dangling at the spiraled end of the hat. And he drops it promptly on Arthur's head, knocking the bell against him. "I don't see much of a difference personally. The colour does suit you."

Arthur grimaces, turning red.

" _You little imp_ —"

Merlin's low laugh breaks off as the offending item goes sailing at his face, and Merlin anticipates its path, ducking smoothly. "Oi, watch it. We're in public," he scolds Arthur halfheartedly, gazing momentarily at a staring, disgruntled employee.

"I need to go ask where the clothing section is. Don't go gallivanting off to the sword rack just because it's there, got it?"

Arthur's sure he's testing Merlin's thinning patience, but at the moment, it's difficult to care.

It's bad enough Merlin's embarrassed him. He only regrets not landing the hit, and then getting the narrowed eyes of the shoppe's owner. Arthur can respect a man's reign in his own domain, but Merlin had it coming. A huff comes out of Arthur's mouth as Merlin walks away, and does he _honestly_ think Arthur would listen to him?

Swords are _far more_ interesting.

His feet immediately take him over to the mounted rack in the opposite direction, and Arthur surveys what's hanging up with curiosity, secretly pleased by the amount of detail. When he reaches out to run his hand over the blade, Arthur's eyebrows shoot up and his lips curl in revulsion.

Like everything else, they aren't _real_.

A grainy, smooth texture, instead of the sleek metal of a true blade.

Arthur pulls his hand back, grumbling. If they had been _real_ swords, they might have been excellently crafted. It's enough to fool him at any rate. He picks up the one that pricks a dull memory, the sword Elyan favoured because of the even balance, and Arthur grasps the hilt.

It's light, much lighter than expected, and feels _nothing_ like any sword. He rolls his eyes.

The swords are less enticing the longer Arthur inspects them.

They are disastrous, cheap _copies_. Fakes in all senses of the word. Even Merlin _couldn't_ hurt himself on these.

Arthur jabs the air, blond eyebrows pinching together until he finally gives up. The instinctive tense of his shoulders and brace of his arms are useless with such a featherweight object. He spins the fake sword in his whole hand before placing it on the rack's hooks, eyes scanning the others with disinterest.

He assumes the peeved griping of Merlin's voice would soon enough appear behind him, the tell-tale sound of hurried footsteps rushing, and when none do, Arthur blinks. He turns round, looking around in circles, and going back the way he came. Now _Merlin's_ lost, probably. Of course.

*

Merlin doesn't fail to notice the irritated, quiet exhale from Arthur's lips when the warlock turns his back, smiling to himself.

He digs his hands into the front pocket of his wisteria-purple hoodie, striding away with a little cheerful bounce in his step.

Ha, ha! Serves Arthur right, the _grump_.

Sensing Merlin's approach, the glaring, frowning employee at the front disappears by the time Merlin is at the checkout. He glances around in confusion. Wait…

"Looking for something?" A woman in her early forties, with dark, bluish-black ringlets and a nose piercing, stops bending down to stare at the armoury gear. She asks him, inquisitively, "Or someone, I take it?"

"I… I was wondering where I could find the tunics."

"Towards the back, if you head that way." She points a finger down another aisle, flashing a pleasant smile. "Go left, near the toliets."

Merlin returns the smile, nodding. "Cheers."

He gazes towards the jester outfits, where he left Arthur, and sees he's vanished on the spot. Blue eyes trace over a path towards the impressively-sized sword rack and… (god, he really _shouldn't_ be surprised)… the top of a golden head.

Agitation contorts Merlin's features, as he rubs his face.

"Why do I even bother?" he mutters.

"That's what I ask my husband when he goes off by himself." The woman speaks up again, this time laughing slightly awkward when Merlin glances back, nonplussed. " _Oh_ , don't mind me. I saw you both at the door. Couldn't resist thinking back when my Billy had been that fit. Feels like it's been ages since we had been so young and in love."

Merlin's heart jams up in his throat.

"We're not—" (Not _what_ exactly? What were they at all?)

He gulps, forcing the next smile until it feels like it threatens to crack apart the corners of his mouth. "We're mates, is all… ehm, good mates. I've known him forever."

(You _have_ , Merlin's subconscious reminds him. _And_ you snogged him, you idiot.)

"Oh." The woman's cheeks go patchy red. A new person walks up to her right, scrutinizing the bracer armour. "Goodness, you must think I'm barmy. I didn't mean to assume—"

"No, no," Merlin says, touching the nape of his neck, thankfully smiling more faintly. "Not at all."

"She really is," chimes in another voice, knowingly.

A man with rather large, horned glasses takes a well-aimed and seemingly hard punch to the arm from the woman with unimpressed dignity. Merlin decides at that moment, whoever they are, they are _definitely_ friends and both very likeable.

"Sally Shipton." The woman introduces herself, jerking her thumb to her companion. "This dolt over here is Larry. So, are you part of crowd coming to the faire tomorrow?"

"Yes," Merlin says. "We haven't been before. It looks exciting."

"It's brilliant. I'm bringing my mate's brother, since Billy finds the Renaissance a bit old-hat."

Sally raises her hand, fingertips brushing over her small, silver nose-ring as she scratches there. She beams over her shoulder at the bespectacled man concentrating on experimentally strapping one of the bracers to his wrist. "Larry is _bonkers_ over Arthurian legend," Sally explains, grinning as if it's hilarious. A flash-flare of tingling warmth spikes in Merlin's chest.

"He wrote his dissertation on, what was it?… Oh, right, the scientific and historical theory of Camelot's location and how they ran their society. Y'know… what their military was like, how King Arthur got on with the other kings, how Merlin was the greatest sorcerer that ever lived… duff like that."

Merlin's senses zoom right into this moment, blocking outside forces and he somehow misses Arthur joining their small group. The air knocks from his lungs. He's dazed, one of his hands covering his neck, loosely grasping, hoping the suffocating reaction passes.

"It's hardly duff," Larry replies, sternly. "Stop it already, will you?"

"I'd love to hear it," the words breathless, escaping Merlin. Blue eyes still too-wide, despite settling down. "You believe they were real people…?"

*

Arthur does locate Merlin, and with two others, locked in a discussion. It's less gone missing, and more _distracted_ , he sees.

He recognises the sheepish stance of Merlin's, how involuntarily tense he seems, and Arthur goes forward. Now he has to be _responsible_ for dragging the other man out of uncomfortable situations once again. Arthur considers letting Merlin find his own way out of it, but not this time.

Arthur trails over, weaving around a display, but his pace halts when the actual conversation reaches his ears.

They were speaking about Camelot.

Of _Arthurian_ legend.

The name slips in, that the history of his kingdom went down under _his_ name.

Not his father's, not Guinevere's or the kings before him—but, Arthur himself.

He doesn't know what a 'dissertation' is, nor does he truly care, but it's unimportant. He remains behind Merlin when the woman spots him, but tips his head in a polite, silent greeting. While Arthur looks passive, his eyes are determined, and trained on the man talking.

Arthur hears Merlin's breathless prompt, and silently glad he doesn't have to do it himself. Arthur wants to know, to test the knowledge of a so-called _dissertation_.

"You would? Uh, well, there's…" Larry clears his throat, now realising Merlin _doesn't_ think his theories are daft. He pushes up his horned glasses with his pinky.

"You must understand that all evidence, even the tiniest scrap of it, reveals the astonishing impact they've made on modern culture. We tell bedtime stories to children about the tales and the destinies of these men, of King Arthur and Merlin. They were so different from each other; one of royal lineage, and the other of magic. But, somehow, they created a kingdom together established on the purest morals: to guide the people based on the ideas of peace, not fear."

It's almost worth basking over—he and Merlin are _fables_ , stories spoken lovingly to the young. His own father told him legends of kings of old as a boy, so it's hardly different.

Arthur's gaze flicks to Merlin, as he comes in closer, able to see his profile. They had been working together for Camelot, always. Arthur knew then Merlin was important to him, and accepted that even as a servant, Merlin impacted major decisions that ordinarily he shouldn't have been able to.

Now, it seems everyone else comprehended Merlin's _true_ worth, and the gravity of him, and Arthur feels off-put by it how _easily_ it comes to them.

"And do you think they succeeded?" Arthur says aloud, and aims a more cordial look to disarm the skepticism rolling off. "I overheard you studied their military. I've studied it myself."

The last word laces with emphasis, but the undertone, the ' _please, do tell me about my men and my kingdom_ ' he's sure only Merlin can detect.

*

Merlin resists a start, his body seizing up, at the clear sound of Arthur speaking up behind him.

It yanks him right out of his emotion-blurred haze. He throws him an unreadable stare, for a moment or so, lips pushing to flatten. There's the faintest hints of a critical gleam to Arthur's eyes and even a fainter manner in how he expresses his suspicion on Larry's information, and Merlin understands it.

He can't blame Arthur for being doubtful of everything he hears. While the scholar's enthusiasm is genuine, and maybe his research and findings, Merlin can't say for certain that he knows _all_.

No-one _could_ know all of it. At this point in time, only Merlin and Arthur carry those memories of Camelot's darkened and then shining, golden ages.

Larry seems to chew over Arthur's question, squinting his eyes, before answering, "Nobility had been an important factor in choosing the Knights of the Round Table, but ultimately not the deciding factor. It was more being noble of heart and of their intentions."

The corner of Merlin's mouth quirks, briefly amused, as he side-eyes Arthur for his non-verbal and subdued response. "They may have been one of the strongest armies history ever saw. Nothing short of extensive training and honing of the body and mind could have assembled, so, yes. Rather successful.

"But, the success of Camelot, while in the hands of men and its King, had been heavily influenced by the great sorcerer Merlin."

Merlin's stomach jerks at the mention of his own name.

A bright, cocky grin overtakes Larry's mouth, as he wags his finger in the air.

"Now _there_ was someone you wanted on your side!" he proclaims. "The mighty _power_ Merlin wielded! A power so severe it could sink a thousand fleets, stop the beating hearts of a thousand men without so much as uttering a word. He could open up the ground beneath your feet and have it swallow you to the pit of the earth."

The swimmy feeling in Merlin's stomach dies, his veins icing over. How _simply_ this is acknowledged… as if self-control in his magical practices were… the equivalent of nothing.

Merlin's jaw tenses, as Larry adds on, having to push up his glasses sliding once more, "He used it to watch over kingdom, instead of the power to destroy. Merlin used his sorcery to devoutly watch over King Arthur. Protected his interests, sacrificed his own life, defeated his foes. Did everything King Arthur could not do."

_Flashes of Morgana's pleading face as she crumpled to the ground in agony; Agravaine's mouth opening in astonishment before a grim Merlin hurled him against a cave wall, snapping his neck._

They flicker behind his eyelids… as a few of the cruel reminders of needing atonement.

"Their relationship was unrivaled—"

"Larry, oh my god, don't even think of going on about their 'tender affections' or 'Merlin was King Arthur's better half' bit." Sally's face twists up in outright disgust, as she protests adamantly, "Merlin was a crotchety _old_ man! Haven't you seen the telly programme?"

"No," he insists, scowling. "Those blinkered farts have no idea what they're talking about. He was thirty or forty when Arthur was seventeen—"

"Oh, that's _rubbish_ —"

Merlin holds up a hand, interrupting with the barest edge of stoniness in his voice, "Thank you. I think I've heard enough."

*

At least the man 'Larry' appeared to know what he was talking about.

He didn't strike Arthur as the type of person to address something he didn't understand, but Arthur learned long ago not to entirely trust that sense.

At first, Arthur believes he catches a falsity already, but when Larry deters it from the initial point, he's impressed. Nobility had never been a quality in his Round Table he avidly searched for. While Uther Pendragon's knights, and Sir Leon, came from the higher rankings, the rest in Arthur's choosing selected purely on their dedication and merit, along with the intentions of their hearts.

Arthur's lips twist, evaluating this scholar with a nod of thoughtful approval. But when _Merlin_ is brought into it, the smile fades.

He knows his versions of the truth, and now knows Merlin's, but hearing about them from a completely _separate_ source? One that had no personal attachment to either one of them, but hearing this stranger bragging to the sorcerer himself? Arthur possibly may have smirked, and elbowed Merlin, if the topic hadn't changed to one of _power_.

Without looking, he notices Merlin stiffen, but Arthur isn't sure he's faring any better. He tries to keep himself neutral, as if listening to another discussion, but inwardly Arthur's painfully aware of Merlin's presence, several inches away.

"Could he now?" Arthur finds the words slipping out before he stops them, more mockery than encouragement. Yet, his mind hollers, and Arthur pushes off the ever-burning questions. Pleading in himself to _not go seeking those answers._ Not now, not here. Only one person could give him this.

Even so, Arthur doesn't feel dread or a surge of fear. Not like his encounters with Morgana, where his whole body vibrated with _danger_.

Merlin isn't dangerous—not to anyone but himself.

The lightness returns to the conversation, debates about their years, and Arthur's familiar with how many times Merlin had been stupid enough to risk his own life for him, how he used his magic for the good of others. Arthur's eyes fall back towards Merlin, and he reaches out with fingertips, grazing to Merlin's elbow in a hushed ' _Calm yourself_ '.

What exactly is upsetting Merlin is a mystery, but Arthur can only guess. For his sanity's sake, he supposes the ' _crotchety_ ' comment. Arthur takes the initiative, placing a firm hand on Merlin's right shoulder.

"I believe you were going to look for clothes," Arthur tells him, not meaning to give it as a _command_.

Arthur's eyes meet Larry's, and this time he shows intrigue.

"Forgive him. He can be a bit of an idiot when his stories are crossed." He squeezes Merlin's shoulder then releases, moving away and crossing his arms. "I happen to know quite a lot about the military strategies of their era. We could compare."

*

Throughout Merlin's epoch, walking every corner of this planet, waiting for an event he had at the time assumed _improbable…_ he listened for each dulcet, meaningful syllable of chance and fate weaving the tapestry of life… Merlin can easily say meetings between strangers and himself like this are not uncommon. This should be no different.

He heard these wildly entertaining conversations before in the past, just other places and time periods.

During the years in and out of Cambridge and Oxford (graduating with a Masters in Civil Law, the next fifty years doing the same with a new face with Pharmacology, and the next fifty with Medieval Languages and Surgical Sciences and Practices). Merlin hunched down in the back rows, casual conversation with his fellow schoolmates at the bare minimum—too young, much _too young_ and ignorant to understand what the ideas of 'self-sacrifice' and 'allegiance' held.

They were all too happy to grant him his request of isolation.

He sat throughout university lectures about _Historia Regum Britanniae_ , about the French writer Chretien de Troyes who began the romantic genre of medieval literature, about legends and fairytales and myths of his very own life and Arthur's argued passionately between various ages and ethnic groups and walks-of-life.

Merlin _doesn't_ understand why he suddenly needs to get out of this room, to back away for a gulp of fresh air (or several, considering how lightheaded he's becoming). Because it feels like Merlin's entire head is screwed on too tightly where it's situated above his shoulders, his temples pounding with a small headache and his rapid-thread of a heartbeat timing it.

Something like a movement of cool air touches Merlin's elbow. He twitches away from it on instinct, chin lowered and wrinkling as the pillowy curve of Merlin's bottom lip catches over his teeth, scraping red to the surface.

He can't look at Arthur. No, not until he gets a grip on himself in front of everyone.

 _How_ is this so hard? (Well, silly question, really, he replies to himself.) The illusion of Merlin's stoic, hardened bearing had been just that, in the end—a weak structure of _illusion_.

That would have only held until Arthur rose from the depths of Avalon, sharp-witted and vociferous as he had been before Death's hand, bleeding honour from his pores, thinking so little of himself in the grand scheme of things when a substantial amount of 'research' and 'history' said otherwise.

He had been the _only_ importance to Merlin's existence for near two thousand years, not because destiny wanted it.

It's because Merlin _wanted_ it.

He _needed_ him.

And the very realisation of this had been… terrifying.

The warm, confident weight of a hand grasps Merlin's shoulder, this time his muscles relaxing from their previous rigidness when the light stroke of a thumb-pad registers along with Arthur's voice. It makes it all the more effortless to drop the heaviness of Merlin's thoughts and _obey_ someone else, trust in Arthur, trust blindly in this command.

Something old-Merlin would have done.

At the mention of 'idiot', Merlin swivels his head to narrow his eyes slightly at Arthur, but without any real heat in it.

"Oh sorry! We were keeping you from shopping, weren't we?" Sally apologises, concerned. "Do you have a mobile? Perhaps we could meet at the faire tomorrow."

Merlin's brilliantly-formed smile indicates no memory of animosity.

"I don't, but I'll be happy to see some familiar faces in the crowd." He outstretches his hand for her to take, announcing cheerfully, "I'm Leon. This is Arthur."

"It was a pleasure, Leon."

Merlin nods wordlessly to Larry, who also shakes his head, but with eyes forward and on Arthur as he blathers on about further studies done about 'blood curses' and 'siege towers'.

He departs, catching Arthur's summery-blue eyes in a cursory message of ' _see you in a minute_ ' before heading down the aisle to the toliets.

As advised earlier, Merlin discovers the men's tunics and other varieties of costumes on the far end of the shoppe. It's a fantastic selection. Most of the clothing had been stitched neatly with linen and either brighter colours or muted ones. Minus the breeches and overcoats.

He focuses on draping an armful for the changing curtain: several-sized tunics, belts, breeches, and a second-hand, brown jacket.

To his immediate left, a turning, cylindered rack of embroidered bandannas and plain-looking, colour-saturated neckerchiefs call his attention. If it had been any other time, Merlin may have hesitated. But the thick, clean fabric fists in Merlin's hand decisively. He adds the grayish-blue one to his pile.

Of the three changing curtained-off areas, all are empty. Merlin occupies the middle, yanking it shut.

*

Despite the glare, Arthur's reassured to get anything from Merlin. There's an instant where Merlin's shoulder clenches, and when he offers one more squeeze, the strain leaves Merlin.

He isn't acquainted with this side of Merlin often.

Typically, it seemed like Merlin could flash a grin, laugh, and deescalate anything he found potentially unnerving with a wry joke. The woman 'Sally' uses a name, and Arthur's caught off-guard. No, Merlin would not be using his true name anytime soon. And, Arthur couldn't address him as 'Merlin' either.

It's a reminder he needed. But thank goodness, because Arthur's _not_ changing his name.

Arthur's gaze follows Merlin's retreating back as Larry continues on. Merlin can handle fetching clothes, hopefully. God help him if Arthur is dragged into that mess all over again.

He stays put, listening to the other man. For the most part, Larry isn't misinformed. The knights and their back-stories are correct, even if details are missing about Sir Geraint and some. Apparently, some names are more pronounced. Sir Leon, Sir Lancelot, they are mentioned, to Arthur's pride and dismay—further on, so are Sir Gwaine and Sir Percival.

Arthur's arms do not uncross from his chest, and his mouth tightens. He doesn't want to argue, but Arthur may start. He's injected his opinion, the _truth_. When the relationships between the knights are brought up, they're fair, but Arthur's nerve wavers at the rumours of 'Guinevere's betrayal' with Lancelot, and a stranger's telling is disgusting.

Finally, after a long, placating debate on the warfare (Arthur had only truly gone to war _once_ ; the other times were of necessity and always ended up averted), he realises perhaps this is a good opportunity to end the conversation before a wedge is driven between them or Arthur grew too frustrated about some (but _large_ ) inaccuracies about himself.

"I'm starting to think Leon's gotten lost back there. Certainly couldn't find his way out if that's the case," Arthur says, earning a few, quiet laughs. "It's been a pleasure, both of you."

He shakes his hand and departs. Arthur's so preoccupied in navigating his way that it's a little slower for him to grasp he had an intelligent discussion, and mostly _accurate_ , about Camelot and his men. In this modern age.

To know someone paid attention, had done their best to understand… it's bewildering. And _humbling_.

"Merlin," he calls, standing by the tunics. It's not a bad selection, though not up to his tastes. Arthur leans over, inspecting the quality. Definitely better than the swords.

*

He doesn't know if there's a full-length mirror outside the curtain, but Merlin hopes so.

There's none to be seen in the changing curtain he entered.

In fact, there's little of anything in the tiny, concealed space. Besides the three, velvety, plum-coloured curtains surrounding him for privacy and a white, plastic outdoor chair that Merlin absently lays his armful of costume garments over.

Merlin unzips his wisteria-purple hoodie, throwing it off onto the floor, his navy-blue t-shirt joining it in a lump. Briefly thankful for the shoppe's working heating system while half-exposed, he strips off his jeans.

The first two sets of breeches are too tight on his bum and along the groin area, and undoubtedly would be less than beneficial while walking long distances at the faire. The last pair (unremarkable brown, nearly _identica_ l to the second-hand coat) is baggy enough for stretching in and crouching as he does experimental squats.

Between the tunics on the chair, there's a black, a red, and a green one Merlin hadn't noticed with a snaggled hole dead-centre on it.

He's paying good money for these, so Merlin tosses that one aside.

He tugs the black tunic over his head, burrowing his arms through long sleeves and finding the tunic's hem reached above his hips. A good portion of his chest shows through the unlaced, V-neck collar. An unflattering triangle of pale skin and a dusting of curly black hairs trailing up his sternum.

Merlin's fingers brush over the collar's metal eyelets.

Why did… he feel as if he knew this before…?

But he _does_. Merlin shuts his eyes, mind clouding with regret.

_Lancelot's perspiring brow under Merlin's attentive hand. His dark eyes sorrowful and worried as Merlin's own filled with tears. Eyelids falling peacefully as the rowboat floated out to water—_

No.

The word silences the image.

The warlock quickly wretches off the black tunic, casting it with the green. He can't go back to that.

Once the red tunic is on, it exposes less, without additional lacing, and fits loosely over his hips. Merlin mentally decides on this one, and encircles a thin and wide belt over his waist. He hopes, for a moment, Arthur's getting on with the others. He seems at least preoccupied with the deep conversation Merlin left behind, and that is fine. Completely fine.

The more Arthur got insight to the real world he's been shoved into, the faster he could adjust, the more _comfortable_ this would be.

Merlin doesn't want him stuck in permanent confusion by his own reality.

It hadn't registered a few minutes ago, but the scholar Larry spoken of his and Arthur's friendship as… something more complex in the days of Camelot.

Merlin's blue eyes dart. It's complex _now_ to be sure. Kissing your best mate and your country's king did that. Kissing him _twice_. On your kitchen's worktop. With him between your opened legs—

— _christ_.

Merlin groans aggravated, scrunching up his face and lowering it, grinding the back of his hand between the space of his eyebrows. His cheeks flaming.

Somewhere outside the vicinity of the curtains, Arthur yells. A great puff of air blows out from Merlin's lips, vibrating them audibly.

"Give me a minute," he calls back, thrusting on the coat and knotting the grey-blue neckerchief to his throat. Merlin frowns down pensively at it.

The fabric edges are so crisp and straight; nothing like the ratty rag he wore during his younger days. It doesn't _feel_ right.

Disregarding the fact he would get into a mighty bit of trouble at the till, but already planning on _paying_ for the item, Merlin begins unraveling the neckerchief, until he deems its appearance suits his heightened memory.

Merlin's face lifts to a soft grin as he pushes open his curtain, excited, loudly enough to get Arthur's attention from where he is.

He steps out with that ridiculous proud look, twirling in place and holding out his skinny arms from his sides.

"What do you think?" Merlin asks. "Not bad, eh?"

*

When Merlin's voice sounds in his ears, Arthur doesn't bother looking over, but his mind pinpoints it beyond the billowing curtains close-by. He assumes it's akin to a changing-screen, like the one in his bedchambers, and there's no urge to go past it.

He merely grunts in response, ruffling through more of the things on display.

But these are just _costumes_ , aren't they? Some of quality, others aren't, and some garments Arthur doesn't believe fit the era they attempt to sell.

 _He_ wouldn't have been caught wearing them. His fingers trail over a deep red, and _painfully_ fake, necklace when the rustling of the curtain jerks Arthur's head up.

What he sees almost dizzies him on the spot.

The man in front of him, for the first time in the past few days, truly _looks_ like Merlin. The toothy grin, and Merlin's ever bright eyes. But especially, his _clothes_.

It's so close to the mental image Arthur finds himself holding of him constantly—of their past, and so, _so close_ his heart pounds quick. Merlin's brown coat had always been a bit too short, the red and blue combination with the dusty breeches. Even the damned neckerchief, frayed as if it spent days hanging snugly around his neck.

He faces Merlin, stunned, lips parting wordlessly. Arthur has been slowly growing accustomed to seeing Merlin in bizarre clothes, outlandish colours, but _this_ …

Right now, right as he lives and breathes, Arthur wants nothing more than to push Merlin back through the curtain and kiss him senseless. Kiss and stumble and memorise the sensation of Merlin's neckerchief wrinkling against Arthur's fingers when he tears his hand into it, pulling them together, needing no surrender.

"It's," Arthur murmurs, eyes big, and he clears his throat.

He _can't_ do that.

*

Merlin's nervous about the big reaction.

His arms lower after a second, tapping against his hips as Merlin's hands bunch the cloth at the sleeve-ends. Merlin's smile fixes on the other man who does a very poor job of hiding his stupefaction. And his _approval_ in the manner of Arthur's eyes sweeping over him. The jacket's a tad big, but handy in colder autumn weather.

Blue eyes lock on his, colour so infinite and wide, and Merlin feels a shudder of intensity wash over him. How Arthur stares at him like Merlin's the only one deserving of it.

He hasn't the faintest on what bend of thought passes through Arthur, but it's not discouraging. The eye-blinks and flustered swallows and stumbled words. Arthur's backtracking, acting cool-headed and snobbish, but it's as if Arthur's _forgotten_ how shrewd and perceptive Merlin has become in their years together, about Arthur's moods alone.

"It's not terrible," Arthur says, dismissively.

At the tug and flip of his neckerchief, courtesy of a smirking Arthur, Merlin's nose wrinkles. His head inclines back when the material smacks him on the nose.

He smooths it down, chuckling.

"Say what you like, but I saw your face. I know you fancy it."

"Don't let that go to your head." Arthur ignores the fact he unwittingly directly confirmed Merlin's observation.

A milder, warmer grin steals over Merlin's lips.

" _No promises_ ," he chirps, adjusting the fit of the brown coat on his shoulders, and going for the full-length mirror several feet away from the curtains.

It's truly like reflecting into past, in a manner of speaking. If Merlin's hair hadn't grown out, if the clothes had been a bit more worn, if he couldn't witness the obscured, inure changes to his own pale face.

Merlin whispers, looking away from the mirror, "I miss it, too. It's stupid… thinking about it, I know that. Camelot's been gone for a long time. We can't return to where you left off and to everyone else." He peeks up, offering to Arthur's reflection now, "Least we have each other, right?"

He's reassured by the faint smile.

He could recall a time where Arthur's very existence turned up his lip into an irritated sneer, where Merlin wouldn't have cared if he vanished. Find someone else to become king after Uther. Someone who wasn't a great, condescending toad. Or treated their servants, well, treated _Merlin_ like a wall ornament, or their own personal punching bag.

But, Merlin could also recall the subtle changes in Arthur's behaviour… visiting the Court Physician's quarters unprompted to check up on a no-longer gravelly ill Merlin, and the not-so-subtle… risking his neck against mercenaries and enchanted soldiers and Cockatrice and 'poisonous' goblets, breaking Uther's law by allowing Merlin to see Gaius before the physician's death-sentence, and that's when Merlin began to finally comprehend the significance of what Kilgharrah hinted at all along.

That they weren't worlds-apart from each other, but merely two opposite sides of a single coin. One purpose, one destiny. And so Merlin started the impossible task of his double life, but with the same goal in mind: Make Arthur king.

At the soft answer of " _right_ " from Arthur, Merlin leaps from the mirror.

"It's your turn to find you something," he says. "How about these?" Merlin gestures to less boldly-coloured, longer tunics. "Have you looked around yet?"

Arthur sneers a little, not even touching them.

"These are servant clothes, _Mer_ lin." He then corrects himself, sorting through a rack, "Peasants—I _understand_ their perception of clothing is off, but I'm not lowering my standards."

Merlin's eyebrow tic up at the snappy nature of the complaint, quite a kingly feature about him, and he screws up his mouth, unoffended.

"Silly me."

He walks towards where Arthur stands finishing his critical examination of the higher-quality tunics, grabbing a handful, and now going through the various, folded trousers.

Merlin leans on tiptoe for balance, swiftly going for the other man's personal space with a cocked head, mouth hovering inches from Arthur's ear.

A soft, humourless whisper.

"Why _ever_ do you keep me around, sire… ?"

Arthur goes rigid, his breath dying in his throat. Merlin's tone seeps in, burning through him in a hot flush. He turns his head, enough to let Merlin come into focus. Whether it's the clear show of playfulness in Merlin's oversized smile or in how Merlin doesn't pull back, or his gaze, it's _appreciative_.

"I have absolutely no idea," he murmurs in response, voice strong, but lowering an octave.

Arthur's eyes hover to the part of Merlin's lips he can see, and is seized by that urge to kiss him once more. Merlin _can't_ do this and expect his whole body to not tremor. Perhaps, Arthur had more self-control at one point, but today is not that day.

And, Merlin… _enjoys_ this sudden feeling without shame. Arthur's warmth in the close and public vicinity (no, he hasn't forgotten where they were standing right now, and unlike centuries-old version of Merlin, he quite honestly doesn't give a rat's arse who might be staring right at them); the giddiness twirling in the center of Merlin's chest.

"Perhaps you can make yourself useful," Arthur states, fully turning, pressing into Merlin's space as he presses a dark red tunic into Merlin's hands. "I need to try this one, I believe."

The bob to Arthur's throat visibly shifts. Oh no, no longer playing around, are they?

It's gravely tempting. The thought of sliding his hands under that ugly, puffed jacket Arthur found himself attached to wherever they went. Seeking out the hard-earned muscles on a sun-golden waist and chest, trailing down over legs and calves, all with Arthur's blessing.

Merlin's head straightens from the cocking tilt. He makes a solemn, humming noise with closed lips.

"Can you see the sign over there?" he asks, jabbing his pointer finger to the huge, laminated square above the changing curtains. A twinkle of mischief to deep blue eyes.

"One occupant per room, in case you missed it," Merlin says, consciously and exaggeratedly looking disappointed. "So, I'm afraid … you're on your own for that."

Without so much of a bat of an eyelash, he yanks at the stretchy waistband of Arthur's jeans until it gapes open, gently enough not to yank Arthur forward. Merlin stuffs a corner of the red tunic inside with his other hand, enough so it dangles without slipping free with gravity in Arthur's trousers, and without a proper explanation.

"But take your time," Merlin says, lip quivering as he restrains a new laughing smile. "We have all day."

*

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have I mentioned how much I love you guys? Cause I totally do. Thank you for reading and sticking around, and also being so kind to me. :) I love hearing from you and knowing how much you are enjoying yourselves. Oh! The ever-wonderful [iceicebradley](http://iceicebradley.tumblr.com) did this **[MIND-BLOWING gifset](http://iceicebradley.tumblr.com/post/120720631055/based-on-val-creatives-the-catalyst-insp)** that is worth all the love and kudos. You are a sweetheart, blessss. 
> 
> I'd like to thank my newest beta [veritably_mad](http://archiveofourown.org/users/veritably_mad/pseuds/veritably_mad/) for helping me out last minute and everyone who has supported me so far. As well as my Britpick [ememmyem](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ememmyem/pseuds/ememmyem) who saved my neck. Half of this fic wouldn't exist without [marlena_darling](http://archiveofourown.org/users/marlena_darling/pseuds/marlena_darling) and I wanna say thank you for taking this journey with me and you've been a best friend to me. I love you lots and this is ours.

*

In retrospect, Arthur wasn't quite thinking about what he was suggesting.

Never has he been so forward, and while it had been partly a coy lark, the way Merlin returned the glances indicates he was must have alone in that assumption.

The first reaction is the slam of his heart within him.

What did Merlin _think_?

They hadn't so much as mentioned any _romance_ between them, or act on it. That moment before, the one in Merlin's kitchen starting out gentle and needy, gaining momentum faster than Arthur's mind could wrap around it.

He's repeatedly aware in his memories of soft lips against his, when Merlin breathlessly said his name, the pressure of Arthur's own mouth against Merlin's neck, with that thumping pulse-point.

Arthur's gaze raises up. He opens his mouth to reply, preparing a sardonic remark, but doesn't get far.

Merlin has his _hand_ down his _trousers_.

He stares at Merlin incredulously. A new emotion overcomes him: a unforeseen respect, or cognisance of Merlin more than capable of being _adventurous_ than he gives him credit for.

*

Worth it.

Absolutely worth it to get the rise out of Arthur, to catch him off his guard. This is Gwaine-level devilry at its finest.

The feeling of _thrill_ simmers to a low, churning heat in Merlin's belly—from the moment he stuck his hand down Arthur's jeans, touching nothing but the red, thickly-woven fabric of tunic. (Not that Merlin would be _appalled_ to the concept of… repeating this under entirely different and more private circumstances, he's sure.)

The gob-smacked expression from Arthur, as he had glances between himself and then a smug Merlin, starts to temper away. The wheels likely had begun turning in Arthur's mind for a suitable response, and Merlin discovers himself in a quick role-reversal.

Being the one holding himself still, a building, shaky-if-released-too-soon exhale in his throat, as his companion murmurs to him, murmurs to his skin. The subtle challenge to Arthur's eyes on him, laced in his voice, roars the temperature of the heat in Merlin's stomach. But he does not move away, or falter in a soft, prying smile.

Arthur recovers, after a long moment.

"You know, _Merlin_ ," he says, lowly, as Arthur tips his head towards Merlin's cheek. "I'm a king. I do as I _please_ , and _when_ it suits me."

"But we wouldn't want you to get in trouble, would we?"

This is Arthur's way of assuming control, again. Assuming his kingship and Merlin's once-role as his manservant, using it to his advantage, but without any cruelty or malice in it. Or really seeking to _gain_ anything tangible. Merlin can't find a hint of those negative aspects anywhere in their conversation.

His eyes follows over impassively where Arthur removes the tunic in a sharp motion, Merlin's ear feeling the physical flush from the hot gusts of Arthur's breath.

"You're very thoughtful, sire." He snaps his gaze back up. Merlin nods, smile widening, voice no louder than Arthur's had been, "It's a nice change to see, I think."

Before Arthur enters the same changing curtain Merlin taken earlier, the warlock opens his mouth, motioning with a finger.

"By the way, I was wrong. You can't take all day. The shoppe closes in an hour."

*

Merlin's fingers anxiously fiddle with the strategically frayed ends of his neckerchief, as he waits for Arthur to decide on a costume.

Not sure where the energy's coming from, he sighs, pacing around some of the racks, idly browsing to keep his mind from wandering. Flax-linen overcoats, wool surcoats, satin and wool cloaks of every possible colour. Merlin would have gone and changed out of his own clothes, to save some time, but Arthur has his changing curtain where all of Merlin's original clothes are still on the floor.

"They fit," is what Arthur blurts out.

A bemused look crosses Merlin's face when the other man hurriedly shoves his choices at him, expression vacant, before heading out the front. Didn't even give Merlin an opportunity to _see_ what they looked like on him. That was fast work on deciding.

Merlin shakes his head, letting the mystifying occurrence go, and sets a new record for the speediest damn clothing-switch in this shoppe, he imagines.

Their new friends are nowhere to be seen.

As he guessed, the girl behind the counter seems displeased with learning Merlin had ripped the neckerchief himself, but says nothing because, truthfully, the shoppe gets the proper amount of money for it. Merlin spares her a long-suffering, thin smile, grabbing his bag of purchases, and leaves out the door.

Arthur already has a head-start down the pavement, his shoulders hunched like he wants to attract as little attention as possible to himself in the crowd.

" _Oi!_ " Merlin shouts, huffing as he runs after him, scowling. "Don't go get yourself lost in this—what's the matter now?" There's a hardened edge to the glance he receives. "Arthur?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?" Merlin repeats, doubtfully, shrugging the bags.

Arthur's head inclines back as he avoids Merlin's eyes, eyes upturned.

"Honestly… it's different. All of it," he says, solemnly.

"It's very different," Merlin agrees, after a long moment and relaxing.

One of Arthur's hands stuff in his pockets, and the other instinctively reaches for Merlin's as they near a road. It's not Arthur's immediate focus; his mind leaps from the changing room, to Merlin's cottage, to what he wanted to do if Merlin had been coaxed into the small, curtained area. There's no certainty in what may have occurred, but Arthur knew he _wanted_ it.

The cold autumn air is merciless in their lungs, but a pleasant, warming heat spreads where Arthur's hands cups his. They aren't crossing, as of that minute, but Merlin can definitely get used to the company. Especially if it allows Arthur to feel more secure during the remnants of the traffic.

Merlin decides to forgive him easily for charging ahead, and nudges their fingers together.

"We're done for the day, yeh," he says, aiming a lively grin at his companion, swinging their joined arms in rhythm.

Somewhere nearby, a lorry blasts its horn.

It's _coming_.

With no time, for either magic to rear up and slow it, or to scream for Arthur to move his arse, Merlin's hands claw into the fleecy material of Arthur's shirt. He violently heaves Arthur forward and sends them both toppling back onto the concrete. Right out of the path of the speeding lorry, barreling right by and heading for the motorway.

They must have rolled during the fall.

Merlin lifts his head and discovers himself on his stomach, an arm splayed out at his side with the other crushed under him. Merlin's nose aches something terrible from impacting ground, hard enough to break. He checks himself—nothing.

What the _bleeding_ fuck was…?

One of the shoppe bag's, not far from where he's sprawled out, with items hanging out, flapping audibly to the wind's breeze.

Arthur—

_Arthur._

Panic roars from the lowest pit of his gut, as Merlin's head jerks around to stare in all directions. God, no, _nono_.

Worried voices congregate in the distance, along with the girl who shrieked in terror.

But Merlin's on tunnel-vision, on the heap of gravel-dirtied, puffed jacket that he crawls to, hands scraping the debris.

Arthur's on his back when Merlin gets to him, unresponsive to his surroundings even as the other man smacks the side of his cheek and calls his name several times. A smear of dark mud across Arthur's jaw. Merlin's first instinct is to check for a pulse, and he does, shakily.

His other hand goes for where Arthur's head rests on the ground.

And, Merlin's fingers come back with the unmistakable warmth of blood.

He draws them slowly in front of his face, blue eyes impossibly wide, ears buzzing loudly, shutting away outside noise and drowning it to a hush. As if Merlin puts a halt to _everything_.

The stark contrast of bright colour against Merlin's pale skin unconsciously makes his insides lurch. Merlin has seen worse, more bloodshed than any person should have witnessed, even Arthur's own blood—Arthur's own death. (But is this _different_?)

He couldn't— _can't_ fail Arthur a second time.

"No," Merlin croaks out, echoing the word. Like it were a mantra that might save him from this hellish nightmare.

Already clearly going against his medical training, he hoists Arthur's upper half to his chest. Merlin holds up Arthur's head. He holds him gently with both hands, a thumb pressing against strands of sticky, reddish-blond hair where the blood seems to flow deepest.

He bows his face, closing damp eyes.

They flare a bright gold behind his eyelids as Merlin growls, teeth baring, " _Ágíeme hine_."

*

For that blinding moment, Arthur criticises his lack of a reaction.

Time spares no kindness for him. It does not allow him the chance to forgive him, to wonder about the fact that he has been dulled, or distorted by his new surroundings. His faults are his own, but they pinpoint on someone far more important than Arthur's failings: Merlin.

The name floods through him, and the alarm in Arthur's chest seizes him.

It's his _responsibility_ to keep Merlin safe, to protect him. Even if the truth hadn't been voiced—everyone knew it. The knights, Uther, Gwen. Morgana. Arthur _needed_ to protect Merlin because he was unarmed, he couldn't fight, and because Merlin was his _friend_. Putting himself in harm's way for someone Arthur cared for, there's no question he would do it. Yet, this time, the reaction seems out of his control, and Arthur's thrown off his feet with a sharp tug.

A ragged groan tears out his lips as Arthur's body collides into another surface. He's trapped in a whirlwind of force, before stilling on the ground. A cold shock blasts through him. Arthur's vision spins as it grows, and the next thing he's aware of, is everything going black.

The spinning doesn't leave him—it _slows_ , languid.

Is he awake or is he dreaming?

Thoughts form too-weakly, heavy and drawn out; nothing coherent. He's simply here, hovering, fighting it. It's a _familiar_ sensation and yet wholly different, and when Arthur finally grasps why, his chest seizes once more.

_The lake._

No, it can't be. It lacks the tranquility, the comfort. But _where_ is Merlin?

Even disoriented, the name allows Arthur to struggle against the darkness holding him back with a silent scream of _no_.

He's not about to leave Merlin again, not when Arthur just returned. Suddenly, there's a low noise, and a _power_ races and tears apart the barrier keeping him away. From there, Arthur can think unburdened, and his eyes begin to open.

It's delayed, mainly due to the throbbing on the back of Arthur's head accompanied by blurry vision. Finally, he gazes into the eyes before him and his body wants to sag in relief. Merlin's fine, he's here with him, he's _alright_ —but why are his eyes so glossy?

(And why is Arthur resting on his knees?)

Arthur's eyebrows pull together in a look of confusion, lips separating.

" _Merlin_?" he mutters, quietly. Arthur's hand twitches. "What's… happened?"

*

His heart refuses to calm down from its frantic, desperate pace, even while sitting in the yellowed, dead patch of grass by the main road.

Edges of Merlin's world blinding out with the glistening sting of tears mounting over, unable to release—even with the efflorescence and cleansing nature of his magic sweeping amid the very oxygen he breathes, unnoticed to anyone else without his abilities.

His thumb carefully strokes the cut on Arthur's head, once malleable to pressure and weeping with blood, now firmly closed over.

It's harrowing how Merlin cannot rest the dread trembling at his core; a senseless paranoia that Arthur may not open his eyes again on his own. He takes shallow, raspy breaths, Arthur's chest weighing on him, his mouth parting.

Flashes of Arthur confined to an unnamed hospital bed, corpse-like and pallid in his vegetative state, hooked to machines and needles and never to be conscious enough to _fuss_ about the repulsive state of tasteless cafeteria food—of Merlin, dark-eyed from little sleep, from hovering over the bedside every available hour, stretching Arthur's muscles he could not use as they wasted away to a pinched, scrawny version of what they had been.

And, Merlin knows in his heart _he would do this_ , would watch over his King's endless slumber, until the very end, without hesitation. On some of those evenings, combing thinned, lackluster gold hair from Arthur's forehead, recalling the nonsensical adventures he threw himself into while Arthur was busy in Camelot or the travels Arthur had not the opportunity to hear yet. Merlin would kneel with aching knees beside the sterile, white bed, occasionally grazing his chapped lips over the softened skin of Arthur's palm, over the royal crest.

Even if it meant he had left Merlin _alone_ , this time with the grim knowledge that Merlin truly and forever was.

Without the rays of sunlight that touched the misery, without that source of human brilliance in Merlin's life that pushed away the shadows gathering. That Merlin drew strength from in his younger days, like his parched throat would savour a cool drink of water from a well. His hopes for a kingdom and for magic, and for Arthur, and for _himself_. Merlin would be left as only a half of two parts needed, and lost.

The Old Religion had a phrase for such deep kinship felt between two people:

 _Béogetwinnsylfumsáwol_.

He believe the ancient translation to pass as: "To be twins of a soul".

… What is he supposed to _do_?

But then, Arthur opens his eyes. Banishes the dark suffocation of Merlin's fears.

He never imagined his own name could be so beautiful.

" _Merlin_?"

" _Yes_ ," Merlin exclaims, murmury.

"Are you hurt?"

" _Mm'fine_ , ya turniphead," Merlin's voice husked and shaky at the end of it, combining a trace of lighthearted snubbing.

It's a raw emotion that Arthur doesn't ignore.

On impulse, Merlin tilts Arthur's face still held in his dirtied hands, angling to harshly press his lips to the crown of his head. His eyes close in relief and blink out a warm trail of tear. "More than I could have said for you if I hadn't gotten your sorry arse out of the road," Merlin breathes out.

Arthur revels in the feeling for the briefest of moments, the urge and the palpable joy, as Merlin pulls away.

"Were they _trying_ to kill us?" he grumbles.

When Arthur reaches up to touch his head, glancing at the red, sticky film on his fingertips, Merlin feels his emergency training hustle away all other concerns. "Try to stay as still as you can," he orders, finally letting Arthur go but minding his friend's upright balance. "I need to check you for any signs of a concussion, just in case."

" _Mer_ lin, please—"

He leans a little into Arthur's breathing space, keeping his own red-rimmed eyes searchingly on the other man. No immediate discoloration to the solid blue pigment of Arthur's irises or to the whites. No visible leakage from the ducts. Arthur's eyes are evenly dilated.

"Since you know my name, I'm going to assume you know who you are. But repeat it back to me, what's your name? What year is it and where are you?"

As Merlin listens, expressionlessly, he lifts up a finger, moving it steadily from side-to-side in front of Arthur's nose.

"C'mon, let your eyes follow it," he says, wordlessly thankful that Arthur's eyes aren't having difficulty. "Tell me if you start getting dizzy or nauseated. I'm fairly sure you blacked out when you hit your head. The spell should have healed you, but I have to be absolutely sure, understand?"

"This is _ridiculous_ ," Arthur protests, frowning. But he relents, bemused and going cross-eyed from Merlin's finger. "My name is Arthur Pendragon. The year is… 2012, and I'm in some blasted village with people staring—Merlin, for _heaven's sake_ —"

He cuts himself off, reaching out and enclosing his hand over Merlin's, stopping him.

"I am _fine_. Your spell worked, I am here." Arthur lowers his voice. Frustration hollers within him at the fact Merlin's been _crying_. Wet eyes and a forced studious look. He always hated the sight, knowing someone has to be in _pain_ because of him. "I am not going anywhere—I _won't_ allow it."

Reluctant irritation shows, but there's _concern_ in some degrees on Arthur's expression. Concern for who? _Arthur_ was the one nearly plowed through. He should be worried for himself. But Arthur never was. Not before his death, and certainly not after. He had always been too quick to throw himself into the fanged mouth of danger.

Merlin's so caught up in examining him, trying not to be angry, that he's caught inattentive by a hand kindly meeting Merlin's face, cradling there for only seconds at best. He blinks. Merlin's head shifts in place as Arthur's thumb purposely rubs the dampness of his cheek.

Not outraged by it: it feels _nice_. Arthur's warmth.

The somewhat affectionate gesture spurs on a curious form of placated amusement, soaking away the doubt. The questions of _am I really here_?

"Now stop being a worrisome idiot, Merlin."

"Only if you'll stop being a complete prat," Merlin retorts softly. Lips twitching up. "Which I guess is asking a bit too much—let's face it—that'll never happen."

Arthur's glare is _pretend_ , halfhearted, and threatening to give away a smirk.

"And here I was, beginning to believe your list of insults had improved over the years. I'm disappointed."

He smacks his hand against Merlin's same cheek, teasingly.

A good-natured eyeroll.

"Yeh, yeh," Merlin says, kneeling up from the grass. He's about to help Arthur up as well, when he catches Arthur staring dubiously.

"Is…?"

He nods pointedly across the road, and Merlin turns to stare as well.

Time has _stopped_ visibly around them—birds frozen in mid-flight, people's faces twisted and unmoving. "Did you…?"

_Did you do this?_

Merlin inhales sharply, drawing back the heavy gust of magic set in place. With relief, time _moves_ forward again. From the crowd of onlookers, a woman races over with her mobile face lit. "I saw what happened. Do you need an ambulance?" she asks Merlin breathlessly.

"No, no, he's alright. I've checked him over." He sends her one of his brightest, unassuming smiles at the faint suspicion. "Sorry, I'm an EMT from the town over. He's my friend. I've seen him fall over before," Merlin jokes, as the woman forces a laugh, seemingly comforted by this knowledge. "It's a thicker skull than it looks, trust me."

*

He has no damned idea what an _ambulance_ is, or what the small contraption in her hand might do, but Arthur can tell she's panicked.

There's a strange sense of gratitude for it. And, of course, embarrassment. He was a king; yes, Arthur had been wounded during tourneys in front of his subjects before, but he carried on.

While his first thought is to glower at the back of Merlin's head, he offers the woman a curt smile with Merlin's reassurances.

"Let's consider ourselves fortunate that it was me, and not you," Arthur comments, earning himself another laugh. "All the air in that skull of yours probably softened it."

Merlin hooks his arm under Arthur's armpit, carefully hoisting him to his feet.

He bites the inside of his cheek.

Arthur… … doesn't need to know they both had taken a blow.

"I think it's time to go before we attract more of them," he whispers in Arthur's ear.

They steady themselves onto their feet, as Arthur grasps his shoulder. The woman ends up leaving them to themselves, after more reassurance, and no one else comes to bother them. Arthur's relief clearly deciphered across his features. "Don't forget to pick up the bags, Merlin," he says.

Merlin nearly trips over one of them spilled out on the pavement. Upright from his bumbling steps, Merlin snatches the handles, saluting in victory.

"I got them!" he yells at Arthur's back, smiling ridiculously before following him in the direction for the woods.

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAAAAH. GOOD TO BE POSTING ANOTHER CHAPTER. I'M A LITTLE THRILLED ABOUT **[THE BIG IMPORTANT NEWS](http://www.nytimes.com/2015/06/27/us/supreme-court-same-sex-marriage.html?_r=0)** IN AMERICA RN. Hope everyone's celebrating too! My birthday went great last week, and now summer is in full-swing. TIME FOR MORE FIC. Thanks everyone still reading and taking the time to leave their thoughts! :) Much more ~fun~ for Merlin and Arthur to come!
> 
> I'd like to thank my newest beta [veritably_mad](http://archiveofourown.org/users/veritably_mad/pseuds/veritably_mad/) for helping me out last minute and everyone who has supported me so far. As well as my Britpick [ememmyem](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ememmyem/pseuds/ememmyem) who saved my neck. Half of this fic wouldn't exist without [marlena_darling](http://archiveofourown.org/users/marlena_darling/pseuds/marlena_darling) and I wanna say thank you for taking this journey with me and you've been a best friend to me. I love you lots and this is ours.

*

It takes more than two minutes, but Merlin joins Arthur in step, side-eyeing his balance. It seems steady enough.

Arthur seems intent on going full-steam ahead, and he doesn't complain. Sooner away from town, sooner they can hopefully put what happened behind him. (But… Arthur's thinking face is clearly visible. The thinking face he wore before a sombre decision made, before a hard-won battle that cost many lives of his men. It's a _bad_ face.)

When Merlin switches a bag to free up his left hand, Arthur's own hand grips it, sweat-slick and firm. His mouth quirks, teeth sinking into his lip, and Merlin ducks his head in case Arthur has the opportunity to spot his pleased grin. This is starting to become a habit, isn't?

The return walk doesn't feel as long or tedious as it might have if Merlin wandered just his thoughts. And then, Arthur has to go and ruin the sense of easiness between them.

Typical of him.

"What if it had been you, instead of me? You're a Dragonlord. Immortal." Arthur asks, eyes narrowing, "But what if it had been _you_? And it had been worse?"

To combat the heat in the verbal reproach, Merlin feels a familiar weariness settle in him.

"If I had needed to… I would have taken any impact," he explains, as if it's a simple matter of the sky being blue and Gwen's father once being a blacksmith. Knowing in part that admitting this would incite a temper tantrum or vex him, and not caring. "Arthur, you're important to me. I would _gladly_ put my neck out for you, as I know you would for me. But I want _you_ safe. I can survive something like that, because I've learned I could over the years. And that's my advantage."

*

While a piece of him, a very strong one, wishes he hadn't said anything, Arthur knows it eventually would have surfaced.

For after such an incident, the air between them is surprisingly calm. But as soon as Arthur opens his mouth, he feels the shift. The flatness in Merlin's eyes, and a tired gaze revealing that the other man would rather not go into this. But, no matter the consequences, Arthur's _not_ about to let this go.

The book explained a lot, but only of their time together. He had not finished reading, and Merlin had spoken very delicately of matters afterward. The witch burning… the thought still makes Arthur's stomach churn; but, this is why he needs to know. What does it mean for Merlin? What does it _mean_ for Arthur's role here?

How can Merlin just talk about this as if it wasn't a danger; like he was simply offering a distraction while Arthur slipped off to avoid a council member? That swell of frustration grows once more but Arthur doesn't know what to _do_ with it and was instead stores it, boiling unless he finds a time to release it.

It could have been _Merlin_.

What would he have done? Arthur doesn't have magic. He knows nothing of this new world or how to help. He can protect him from attacking mercenaries and bandits; he can clean arrow wounds or a treat a blow from a mace, but _a car_? Arthur's chest burns.

Merlin waves a hand over the cottage door as they edge for it, still outside the gates, unbolting it from the inside. He glances coolly to Arthur, planting a hand to the boulder-stone gate-wall.

"What's the look for…?"

"I don't _want_ you to put your neck out for me," Arthur states, voice rising a little as he motions with a swing of his arm towards the open woods. "What would I do, Merlin? Would you simply get up and brush yourself off? Or would I be left here until you to come back?" He swallows, bringing his hand back to his side as he stares, dumbfounded, at Merlin.

"Just because you can _survive_ doesn't mean you damn well should get yourself killed. I wouldn't know what to do— I _can't_ lose you, do you understand?" Arthur bristles as the words tumble out, and his shoulders go rigid as he stands a bit straighter. "I need you here. Not being a daft idiot getting yourself hurt because of me."

The way Merlin's posture stiffens while Arthur speaks is not encouraging, but he refuses to look away. Not now, not when he _needs_ to get his point across.

Though what point exactly he tries to make is a bit of a touchy subject. There are so _many_ things that Arthur wants so desperately to say that he can't form the words right. Ones he doesn't want to speak aloud in fear of Merlin's view of him changing, or because facing them is not option. But all of it, every little thing bleeds down this:

He might not survive here without Merlin.

Arthur is _lost_ , more and more every waking moment. Every question asked leaves him more confused, the ones he keeps to himself clouding his mind.

He doesn't understand this time or its mysteries. Arthur doesn't belong _here_ , and that scares him.

At least with Merlin, he has some form of hope to hold on to. An old idea and friend that exists. He's not the same as before, yes; but he's Merlin.

The thought of being alone has never been more _terrifying_ , but he can't say that. He refuses to. Refuses to break. This is as close as Arthur is getting on the subject, and it's already more than he would like to share, but it's the truth and Merlin needs to hear it.

*

Arthur doesn't step in tandem behind him.

Merlin's hand braces to the door-frame as he half-turns to the other man. Expecting the backlash of harsh tones and cutting, indignant words.

But it's not what Merlin expects at all. Not that he's entirely sure what he does expect now. Being on his own for so long… and now _finally_ with the one person Merlin craved a vision of, a caress of their human touch, one, glorious syllable from their tongue… it gives the sense of unpredictability these days coming.

Arthur spoke so softly at first, so pragmatically that Merlin's eyebrows lift up, but his blank look stays. This is getting a bit much. It isn't as if a car accident would be the _end_ of the world. A car accident was _nothing_ compared to the countless other agonies Merlin could have suffered, _have_ suffered on his own.

But as Arthur's grievances become more pronounced, Merlin gets a nagging sense that he's missing some important puzzle piece to Arthur's meaning in this conversation.

_I can't lose you, do you understand?_

_I need you here._

Merlin's body tenses, as Arthur's shoulders does, his mind reeling with the sharp, bursting clarity.

It's there. Right in front of Merlin's face the whole time.

And it should have been bloody obvious.

Arthur does not wish for that bleak loneliness _anymore_ than Merlin does. And he would be that if Merlin were to leave him suddenly, roving confused in a world Arthur had no real grasp of. Arthur would be left to make mistakes that could possibly harm him. And any sacrifice Merlin would have made for him, intentional or not, would amount to nothing.

His muscles loosen from their knotting tension, sinking down any remainder of the previous hardness in Merlin's expression.

"You're right," Merlin says, fingers curling to the door-frame, eyes staring off. "I didn't see that situation through your eyes. And I should have."

It's not the ' _oh, of course, sire_ ' tone when Arthur used to bellow at him, or when he faked sincerity. It's genuine.

Deep blue eyes flick up.

"But you don't get to be a daft idiot either," he argues. "No more playing the hero, no more self-sacrificing rubbish you've always done.

"I just got you _back_ —" Merlin silences the rest of that sentence, voice wobbling with more emotion he's capable of handling right then. And what might come to pass if he let them go so easily. The warlock lifts another hand, shutting his eyes and rubbing his fingertips over his eyelids, deliberately trying to take steadier breathes.

With a loud sigh, Arthur moves to him.

"Like I said," he responds, his voice quieter. It's not gentle, only soft, in the same way he might discuss his precautions with Leon before a joust. Arthur places both of his hands on Merlin's shoulders, carefully squeezing. "I'm not going anywhere."

Mental exhaustion from the last few hours, far too _eventful_ for Merlin's liking, creeps up to him.

He doesn't want to argue with Arthur outside in the cold about who is the bigger dolt about offering up their lives for the greater cause. Prolonging it. Merlin would have liked to avoid the fight. He doesn't particularly carry any fondness for the streak of guilt.

He understands this: Arthur doesn't care enough about himself, and Merlin doesn't view his own safety as a concern when it comes to him. That much is obvious. It's a violent cycle of sorts, dismissing the other person's worries while attempting to do what they thought was best for the same person, when in reality doing more harm than good.

And yet, Merlin isn't sure if there ever will be an easy answer for ridding themselves of that cycle.

But he's willing to listen, to take a little more mind in his actions if it soothes Arthur's dismay.

Arthur's voice filters in, not jarring in its pitch but perhaps too composed. He speaks like Merlin is the only one who needs the reassurance. Merlin kicks down the thought to reach up and wallop Arthur across the head. He doesn't have the energy. Doesn't think it would do much good, other than shattering the fragility of the moment.

Merlin's arms waver upwards in the air, when Arthur's hands squeeze, but moves quickly.

He mutters, calmly, " _Shut up_ ," no longer wishing for the conversation's subject to remain.

Merlin's arms lock in an embrace around Arthur's neck. His frame pressing in close to the body in front of him. Merlin decides then he wants little to do, at least for the next several minutes, with anything else if it isn't physically securing himself to both his source of comfort and his source of greatest turmoil.

He manages to keep the troubled glint out of his eyes while looking at Arthur, but it appears, ebbing away the bright colour.

Arthur being on his own; Arthur being _afraid_.

Merlin dips his head to Arthur's shoulder, burying his face into the ugly, puffed jacket. It's a beastly thing; he has _no_ idea why Arthur's first choice was to pick it up from the coat rack this morning. There's smell like the gravel from the road, and faint beneath it, something akin to Arthur. The jacket bars the skin-warmth he craves and Merlin muffles grumpily into it.

*

He misses the light in Merlin's eyes, the cheerful smile.

The request to stop self-sacrificing doesn't bode well, but Arthur pushes it back. Merlin should _know_ why he done the things he had; it was for his people, for his kingdom's sake and for his friends. To spare them and their lives was always more important. But now, Arthur begins to wonder if that is truly necessary in this era.

Despite the cars, this world almost feels… safer. No monsters, and the people appeared healthier and happier and at ease, as if attacks weren't common.

He keeps his eyes on Merlin's, but when Arthur is abruptly pulled into a tight embrace, he barely refrains a stumble.

It's unexpected, but exactly what Arthur has been wanting.

Having the thin yet strong arms wrap around his neck, tugging him flush to Merlin's chest, is welcomed. After a moment, Arthur slides his hands around Merlin's waist. He holds on, because just as quickly as it had left, the panic of losing Merlin wells up. The fear of losing _this_.

Arthur's fingers tangle in the hoodie's fabric, encircling Merlin's smaller frame. His heart pounding fiercely with the warmth radiating from the other body.

He doesn't care how long they stay here, or about the fact that it's getting dark. Arthur doesn't want to _let go_ just yet.

Tufts of dark hair brush against his skin as Merlin adjusts his face against Arthur's shoulder once more. Short bursts of warm air tickling his neck as the other man breathes out. Arthur leans his head with a soft weight against Merlin's on instinct, eyes shutting.

Hugging Merlin is starting to become a constant in Arthur's… _new_ life.

With a exhale, he tilts his head, adjusting so Arthur's lips ghost over Merlin's hair to simply rest there. It's a gesture he had done many times with Guinevere when they had an honest moment of their own, or when she worried. The reminder is enough to ground him for the time being, but the comparison— _she's dead_ —twists an ugly knot inside him.

*

Damned jacket. He'd rid of it as soon as he could.

Merlin keeps any deranged sense of irritated grumbling about it to a minimum, venting it in one long breath, and tightens his arms where they are.

The lulling silence remains unbroken, and Arthur hasn't pulled them apart, to interrupt the hug with a hearty, awkward slap on the back or a backhanded, disarming insult to halt any show of intimacy. This means that he accepts where they are, that Arthur needs this, this nearness, just as much as Merlin does.

The gentle, continuous rise and fall of the chest to his. Arthur's fingers digging into Merlin's clothes.

A warm, sudden puff of air hitting the tip of his ear when Arthur's lips touch to his scalp. Little hints. And he appreciates them.

Merlin hums pleasant and deep in his throat, eyes opening, letting the side of his thumb lightly stroke the nape of Arthur's neck.

"Oi, clotpole," he murmurs, mouth inclining towards the space under Arthur's jaw, just barely touching. "You're letting the cold air in." Merlin then smiles a little, catching a glimpse of light blue eyes before he lets go. Tugs at the back of Arthur's jacket to come inside the cottage. "Leg it."

"You're the one blocking the door," Arthur says, indignantly, but obeys.

The rest of the evening hours pass with unremarkable clarity, filled with a hot dinner and each other's company punctuated with the usual banter and half-peeved eyebrow raises.

He manages to even take the time to explain the refrigerator to Arthur— who had been casting the over-sized kitchen appliance distrustful glares whenever it whirred noisily on. A lengthy, resigned explanation that slows Merlin's preparation of dinner and signals an assortment of looks from his house-guest, but Merlin gets across the barest details of how the fridge ran. And how electricity powers most lighting (instead of candles and burning torches) and any form of machinery (not clockwork-circuitry or water) of the current age.

Which leaves them where they are, joined together on opposite ends of the threadbare couch, Arthur finishing up his meal and Merlin chewing thoughtfully on a wheat roll.

Possibly soon, Merlin would get around to explaining the concept of radio signals with AM/FM radio resting untouched in the corner of the kitchen, and then the portable television unplugged in Merlin's wardrobe—but that would be an entirely different adventure for both him and Arthur. And definitely not meant for tonight.

Now that he's certain that Arthur won't be secretly planning any combative tactics against recognisably inanimate and harmless objects, Merlin enjoys a somewhat easy atmosphere in his cottage. He really shouldn't get used to it. Something is always bound to pop up. But _whatever_ it was can sod off for all he cares.

"We'll be taking the bus to the faire tomorrow. S'too long to walk there," Merlin speaks up, though with some difficulty with a mouthful of bread. He gulps it down and then stares the blank look of ' _what the devil are you talking about_ ' from his companion.

"Oh, right. Buses are like cars, only bigger in size. And fit loads more people. Public transport is actually very handy, you'll get used to it. We'll be heading out to the stop in the morning, 'round 8." Merlin wipes at his mouth of any crumbs. "I'll set the alarm for it."

He smooths his hands over his knees, watching Arthur clean his tin fork with a swipe of his lips.

It is good, no, _very_ good and very reassuring that Arthur has a healthy appetite. Nearly as healthy as the days of Camelot.

Merlin wasn't sure in the beginning what to expect about Arthur returning, if his physical health would be shaky, if Arthur would even be _Arthur_ or remember who Merlin was. The passing thought had been chilling and unwanted, but he supposed that could have been reality.

Merlin's knuckles tense visibly over his jeans.

"How's your head?"

"It's fine," Arthur dismisses him. He actually _is_ fine; nothing hurt, besides a small crick in his neck and a cramp bunching between his shoulder-blades.

Hearing it from Arthur's lips that he's better (despite what damage a near hit-and-run accident could do) is enough to settle any thread of apprehension left to Merlin's thoughts. He believes Arthur wholeheartedly. Because Arthur knows now that lying to Merlin's face, after… telling him he wouldn't have it, will not go over so well.

Gaius noiselessly leaps onto the cushion, making himself cozy between them by lounging out with paws curled up, and nuzzling his golden head to Merlin's leg.

The warlock chuckles, reaching down to scratch the kitten's ear.

"Are you lonely, _hmm_?" he asks lovingly.

Arthur leans over the side of the settee, stretching to deposit his empty plate on the small table by its side.

"What the hell are you on about? It's hard to be lonely with you prattling in my—" Arthur stops when he looks back around, seeing Gaius curling into the area he had previously thought about occupying. At least with his legs, that is. He rolls his eyes, glaring before resting further into the cushions. "You let your animal on the furniture, do you?"

Gaius purrs, draped where he is, still occasionally nuzzling Merlin but with his big, round eyes staring unblinking at Arthur. The kitten does not look the least bit fazed at the narrow-eyed response and mewls contently, raising his head up when Merlin's index finger locates the spot under his chin.

Merlin shrugs, replying thoughtfully, "Not the kitchen table. I'm trying to break him of that habit. It's good he's eating now; I was starting to get worried about that."

After a beat, he shoots Arthur a slightly bemused frown. "Why? S'not like Gaius has fleas. He's an indoor cat."

Merlin's frown deepens with obvious disapproval when Arthur placed his empty plate on the side-table and sinks down like he is getting comfortable where he was. Merlin nudges his socked foot to Arthur's calf, hard enough to get his attention.

"There's no maid service here. Put that in the sink and rinse it; don't leave it sitting there," he says, jerking his chin to the offending plate when Arthur's eyes wander around, fingers absently scratching Gaius' fur in lazy circles.

Arthur raises his eyebrows incredulously.

"You're joking," he replies, his head turning for only a moment to look at the plate Merlin's getting so riled up. "I put it _down_ for a moment."

"Oh, don't fuss like I've done you some terrible wrong," he tells Arthur, evenly. Curling his lips in to flatten away a smirk. "This is a fine lesson you're learning: Always clean up after yourself. Shows character."

Merlin's foot lingers to Arthur's leg, applying gentle but steady pressure, until the other man rushes up, grumbling furiously and storming out.

The metal scratching noise of Arthur's fork against the plate hurts his ears but he only snorts humored at Arthur's back. Merlin glances down at Gaius rolling back onto his stomach, faking an exasperated sigh, "What are we doing to do with him, Gaius?"

As the yellow kitten takes the warmed spot where Arthur had been, curling up with his tail wrapped around him, Merlin stretches out with a low yawn, lifting his legs onto the settee and folding his arms behind his head as he lays back flat. The glowing fire in the hearth drones a serene heat into Merlin's limbs, and with eyes closed.

Merlin could really get used to this.

The smirk returns, full-force, as he shouts towards the kitchen, as the running water switches off, "There's a tournament, if you didn't see it on the flier! Something on about volunteers and sword-fighting matches! I figure you'll be wanting to sign up as soon as we get there!"

*

Arthur ignores Merlin's tone as he disappears from the parlor, knowing full well that he doesn't have to look up to see the attempts of holding back a grin.

Insufferable dolt.

He remembers well the moments when Merlin had been in charge, though rare, he taken full advantage of it—this appears no different. Perhaps he's having more _fun_ with it.

Arthur stands in the kitchen, lukewarm water running over his hands.

"Your damn cat can sit in between us on the couch, and I'm doing dishes," Arthur mumbles to himself as he dumps the plate in the sink. "If Merlin thinks I'm going to start doing his chores… he better believe otherwise." For some reason that Arthur refuses to categorise as _childish_ , he blames the cat for this. The thing interrupted Merlin's attention on him, which more have more or less distracted him from the plate.

Arthur scrunches his nose at the plate as if it personally offends him, but puts it back and shuts off the water instead of mumbling more.

As he wipes his hands off on a hanging towel, not far off Merlin's voice reverberates from the other room and he tips his head towards the noise.

A surge of excitement courses through him.

Now _that_ is something he could manage success in. Sword-fighting must have changed over the years. The swords in the costume shoppe, no matter how awful quality, mimics extreme detail. This is what Arthur desires; a way to release some of the energy and tension coiling up, and in a sport that he certainly would not lose.

"I would like that!" Arthur calls back, but then, a thought distracts at him.

 _Excalibur_.

He assumes they would have swords there for him, that his own was long since lost.

But, maybe Arthur _should_ have it. That it should have come with him. His lips part, almost ready to ask if he had been sent off with his sword, but Arthur hesitates.

No, not now.

*

There's no disguise in Arthur's eagerness. Gladdened by this, Merlin cracks his eyes open, smile softening from teasing.

Arthur could use the slight familiarity, and definitely the way to shake off any excess steam. Sitting around the cottage would do no good. A bored-out-of-his-mind Arthur was nearly as awful as an irate Arthur.

The faire would provide him the suitable armor and padding and, of course, a sword. They hadn't needed to pick anything more than costumes.

(On the subject, Merlin has not heard any complaints about the sword-rack Arthur found at the shop. Though there's to be plenty. Swords aren't constructed as they had been during the early centuries. If they exist, they were only unusable antiques and owned by rich, private collectors. And Arthur was, to put it mildly, _spoiled_ by having used a sword forged by a dragon's breath.)

He hears his house-guest step back into the parlour from the kitchen, but Merlin does not straighten up. In fact, he closes his eyes once more, relaxing his muscles to the cushions.

"It would be nice to have a decent match," Arthur says. "There's nothing around here to spar with. You're only a decent punching bag."

Merlin unhooks one of his arms from under his neck and casually flips his first two fingers at Arthur. Understanding full well that Arthur hasn't the faintest what the obscene gesture meant. But it still meant what it's meant.

Arthur's grumble does not affect him, but there's a sudden weight crushing down on Merlin's legs. It has him up on his elbows, staring incredulously. The other, larger man wiggles himself on top of Merlin's legs so that he's partially behind him. "Move, or I sit here," Arthur orders, sternly.

Gaius jumps off the couch, onto the floor.

"You _are_ sitting, on me, you great lump," Merlin says begrudgingly. He manages to work his left leg out from under Arthur and plants his foot at Arthur's side, grinning widely at the frustrated reactions and laughing aloud when Arthur wrestles Merlin's leg and pins it down.

Merlin knows he's no match in a contest of brute strength against the other man, but feels no defeat in that sense, or tremor of panic when Merlin's leg is indeed pinned down, and Arthur's hand lands to his hip.

While in Arthur's hands, he could be anything, but _never_ afraid.

*


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Has everyone been enjoying the ["Damien"](http://nooowestayandgetcaught.tumblr.com/tagged/damien) updates all over Tumblr? Ahaha. Yesterday was pretty great. I wasn't so sure about putting up newchap in the middle of Comic Con week, but I did a quick poll and it seems today was as a good day as any! :D I'm nervous this time about this chapter idk. You lovelies can tell me your thoughts. I don't mean for anyone to wait too long - I wanna make sure you get your chapters. NEXT CHAPTER IS SO GREAT THO. FAIRE TIME. SWORDFIGHTING. I'LL HAVE IT NEXT WEEK.
> 
> I'd like to thank my newest beta [veritably_mad](http://archiveofourown.org/users/veritably_mad/pseuds/veritably_mad/) for helping me out last minute and everyone who has supported me so far. As well as my Britpick [ememmyem](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ememmyem/pseuds/ememmyem) who saved my neck. Half of this fic wouldn't exist without [marlena_darling](http://archiveofourown.org/users/marlena_darling/pseuds/marlena_darling) and I wanna say thank you for taking this journey with me and you've been a best friend to me. I love you lots and this is ours.

*

There's a twinge of guilt for scaring off Gaius, but no more after feeling the distinct pressure of Arthur maneuvering onto his legs.

 _God_ , maybe Arthur's appetite is too healthy.

"Because someone decided to take up the whole ruddy thing," Arthur drawls. "It's your fault, _Mer_ lin—"

He grunts, anticipating an attempt to knock him over, his brow pinching. Merlin isn't _stronger_ than him, by any stretch of his imagination, but it's the agility that catches him off-guard. He pulls himself up completely on the settee. Both of Arthur's large hands plant firmly down on him.

At one point, Merlin notices Arthur's expression flash to surprise but other than that, the other man has Merlin right where he wants him.

Merlin's lower body is useless, and Merlin's right wrist finds itself in a secure hold to a threadbare cushion. While his laughter now borders on gasping, Arthur lets out his own chuckle, breathing roughly from the horseplay. That's perhaps the second time, in the same week, Merlin has heard the sounds of noisy laughter in this estranged and grim cottage.

And, this is… beyond words, a sort of _wonder_ only Arthur could have brought into his once _lonely_ life.

From his position lying back on the settee, with a great, dimpled smile to flushed skin, dark hairs sticking where his head pushes down, Merlin takes a shuddery, laughter-weak breath. Arthur's skin hot where it presses to Merlin's bare wrist. He wants more of this, and it only feels natural to Merlin's giddy-induced reasoning.

This skin. Has wanted more of it since the coy suggestion about the shoppe's changing curtain.

"Face it, Merlin. You haven't a chance. I always win."

Arthur doesn't realise he's been grinning until the corners of his lips strain. He's focusing, eyes drawn to Merlin, to the bright noises accompanied by the wide smile.

"Got you to stop moping. That's pretty much a victory to me, aye," Merlin answers brazenly.

Another huffed laugh, trying to be indifferent, but the grin remaining on Arthur's face indicates something else. Something more welcoming. "I wasn't _moping_. A person can only handle listening to you for so long," he insists.

Merlin's free hand inches over, grasping firmly at Arthur's forearm. A seconds-long flash of pink tongue slips between Merlin's dry lips.

"Have me at your mercy, then…? Are you going to do something about it?"

They aren't that far apart. Arthur's right on top of him (and _god_ , what is Merlin even _saying_ to him), and the tantalising words filter in.

"I plan on shutting you _up_ ," Arthur mutters, forgetting his hesitation and his doubts, leaning in and capturing Merlin's lips with his. Leaning forward, adjusting his weight to make it obvious he isn't going anywhere.

*

It's truly a beautiful thing to witness in private.

Such openness and fondness in the concentration of Arthur's gaze on the other person, lighting up in his smiles. And it would only be _privately_ , away from the inquisitive eyes of the court, from the lighthearted jeers of the knights. Away from those who would shrink the importance until it was nonexistent.

He could have only witnessed those looks from Arthur when Merlin spied through Gwen's window, or around the marble corridor, seeing two people very dear to him crowded together and embracing, Arthur's chin set atop Gwen's black, curling hair.

Only this time, the other person is Merlin himself, being examined so closely with unmasked satisfaction, being touched, and dare Merlin think, _admired_. Which itself is an bittersweet realisation. Merlin doesn't think he knew the feeling of admiration from anyone, not like this.

… _Except_ maybe one other.

But he and Freya's time together, their hopes and their dreams of running away to a wildflower-covered mountain bordering a lake were many, many ages past. And Merlin can not dig up what he wishes to keep buried. Certainly not here, not in serene, fire-warm bones weighted by Arthur's presence, not already so open to the person Merlin wants more than…

" _Door's right there, if you're getting sick of it_ ," he rasps out, shifting his head where it is.

But Arthur never goes for it, joking or not. He's fearless sort of man meant to be King. A slow slide of Arthur's mouth pressing against his. The fondness from earlier, the very same, somersaulting inside Merlin gently. And it's exactly what he _hoped_.

Merlin doesn't wince at the overly-tightened grasp on his pinned wrist, or necessarily fight it, but won't remain passive for long.

He _needs_ that skin against him, more of it.

Fingers drift from Arthur's forearm, releasing. They slide with clear intent against the material of Arthur's shirt, until they reach the hem. Merlin's hand wrinkles it up, diving underneath as he blindly spans his fingertips across the muscular firmness of Arthur's back. Nails accidentally scraping one of the few scars and rocketing an unexpected tremble.

It's not panic drumming in Arthur's heart—it's _expectation_ , it's knowing he has Merlin near. Arthur has kissed plenty of times, but never Merlin before all this.

 _Merlin_ , a man, his servant and closest friend in his mind.

Merlin's flattened palm and his fingers skim in a drowsy measure of where he reaches of Arthur's warm skin. Feeling where muscles and tendons tense, where the other man bent forward, spine arched. Maps the bump-raised path to immediate touch.

With a short inhale through his nostrils, Merlin tilts his head up from the cushion, pressing his lips far harder into the shared contact of the kiss. Any much harder and he would start _losing_ feeling. To ease it, Merlin parts the line of his mouth, waiting for Arthur to sluggishly copy the action before swiping the tip of his tongue against the rim of Arthur's mouth.

It's not a move Arthur expects, to be sure. He didn't peg Merlin as the _forward_ type, but in a way, it makes sense.

Arthur simply doesn't know what to do with that information.

But then again, he always did think better on his feet.

The excitement builds up, swirling and tangling with the low, constant thrum of Merlin's magic, dizzying him. The alertness of another body over him, just inches from pressing to his, and oh how Merlin would have been _fine_ with that. With slotting hips and legs and chests. The physicality of the idea that they were _missing pieces_.

This is a place Merlin needed to imagine that he belonged all along.

Maybe not being trapped in place, but… after enduring the strenuous burden of his and Arthur's destiny for so long, now out of the looming threat of danger, now having the Once and Future King groaning softly against Merlin's accepting mouth, _alive_ and whole—the waiting is done; Arthur has come home.

And that Merlin understands, after nearly two thousand years, what that can feel like again. Home isn't _only_ where you rest your head.

It's where you feel the hollow spaces inside of you clog up with emotion you had forgotten. Where the fatigue of everyday life is thrown off as easily as a velvet-lined cloak. And the sour and cruel taste left in an immortal mouth _fades_ , the tinge sweetened with Arthur's saliva damply gathered where Merlin's tongue drags. The igniting heat of alcohol doesn't not compare, in dulling the memories of where they are, what this feels like.

This is their discourse to play out until the very end; there are no rules. No codes of conduct. No roles or court statuses meant for either Arthur or Merlin to adhere to. To him, Arthur would always be his king, even without Camelot. The only human man to exist be able to command Merlin's utmost respect.

But, Merlin cannot be the old Merlin, the guileless manservant.

He can only be Arthur's _companion_ now, his protector, his dearest friend.

Another smaller lick between the pillowy surface of Arthur's lips prompts a response. Arthur isn't leaning away, rather leaning _in_ again and opening up his mouth. Merlin rides the cue, sucking in fresh air and repeating the lick. Letting his tongue instead going past barriers of teeth as he moves inside Arthur's mouth.

Merlin is being _granted_ this by Arthur.

A pleased, gravely noise escapes him. Merlin's blunt nails press down again, this time digging faintly over Arthur's lower back.

*

It's nice to forget. That's what this is; Arthur's mind so engrossed, so fixated on everything happening that all thoughts of the world leaves him.

This begins to feel _new_.

He has no memory of ever kissing Guinevere quite like this.

Their kisses had been soft, gentle and tender because they _could_. Those were moments together before their marriage were theirs— _theirs_ alone without the council's eyes on them—where they could let the barriers down. Gwen was strong, yes, and he treated her as any Queen deserved.

But honestly, Arthur has been doing little more than _being_ a presence.

Merlin began to wonder faintly enough… if Arthur was simply letting Merlin do as he wished. It's not enough stall his hand crawling or from lightly and encouragingly stroking the flat of his tongue to the roof of Arthur's mouth. It seems unlikely, given the earlier groans and shivers, but if he's unsure …

He has no desire to rush Arthur… no matter how this it feels, at last, to share this blossoming intimacy— when Merlin could have only dreamed of Arthur's grinning, kissable mouth; the softened edge to blue, blue, blue eyes safely in the cover of the fallen evening, in his own chambers.

In the days of his manservant duties, Merlin complained endlessly. Even so, they were colour-saturated days he remembered after wandering the tasteless, dour grayness in this immortal life. Days with _bliss_ , and adventures, teeming with fear and pain and joy.

Days where Merlin carried his secrets about his sorcery (and his shyly realised, less-than-platonic emotions). He pretended Arthur's supercilious attitude wasn't _aggravating_ , and pretended to be a mindless wall-ornament, even with other nobility. Somewhere in the back of Merlin's mind, He knew Arthur found his witticism and the returned insults quaint.

Hilarious, even.

And _appreciated_ , though not acknowledged as such. A meagre servant could not have convinced a King to follow him through the woods, to Excalibur, and inspire him with kind and honourable words to take it up from the stone.

But Merlin doesn't think he would have changed anything. Not a line to sever himself from Arthur's destined path. Camelot had been in his hands, under Merlin's protection, along with Arthur's kingship and his very life. Merlin had never been _just_ a manservant. And Arthur understood that now.

Arthur wants to experience the _same_ way Merlin is.

Through foggy memories, he has the expanse of Merlin's thin shoulders, back a few nights prior. But he can't do anything in the current position, keeping Merlin's wrist down and sitting too far back. There is no point in holding him—neither of them are going anywhere—and so, Arthur releases Merlin's wrist. His fingers uncurl, hand falling to the cushion.

Maneuvering himself is a task, but Arthur rolls his shoulders forward, his lower body moving with his as he slots his legs with Merlin's instead of resting on them. He jerks and slips a bit, but Arthur stills himself. To his delight, the balance is much easier to accomplish.

Merlin's upper legs release from being pinned down, tingling, but now able to gladly press back against Arthur's stirring with his. He brings up his free hand to steady Arthur's hip, stabilizing his hold there by clutching on.

Arthur's lips vibrate with a short moan moan. His lungs hitch and burn when he can't quite get the breath he needs to recover, and pauses from kissing Merlin. His body shifts, rocks into Merlin with just enough restraint to not jar him. His cock is heavy in his trousers, and by now, Merlin _has_ to know.

His right hand, once firmly on Merlin's side, trails downwards, grabbing the hem of Merlin's shirt and plunges beneath.

Reassurance, hazy and kindled with the slow-churn of mellow heat rising to warm the surface of Merlin's neck and face and ears, accelerate the same heat. Shorten his already sharp trembles of breathes. At the same time, Arthur kisses again him, mimicking the slow lick Merlin gave in the form of a push. The slide of tongue brushing against tongue, a quick one, but bold in nature. The assertive streak Merlin knew so well from him finally closes in, seeming to compel Arthur's hand resting near his left side to inch away.

He doesn't know where to focus on. The earlier, pleasant dizziness of senses grasp at Merlin, pulling him multiple directions all at once and quivering his body.

Either on Arthur's quickly-developing talent with using his tongue on the soft, sensitive points inside Merlin's mouth, or the hot, undeniable pressure of a palm sliding up curiously over Merlin's navel. He can't force down the audible, gasping moan passing from his throat, clearly felt where their mouths connect.

Merlin's stomach arches noticeably to Arthur's touch, as if urging for more contact, skin-starved and demanding.

The cradling warmth of Arthur's hand lifts his head, closer than expected, supporting Merlin's neck up to angle the press of their mouths tighter.

A thumb sketching idle-lazed, subdued lines of heat to Merlin's neck, nudging the tip behind Merlin's ear. The patterns, to him, more meaningful than loving, false whispers. Full of purpose and hieroglyphic so that Merlin could read in its emotion starkness.

Arthur's other fingers splay out, traveling up over Merlin's lower stomach. The quivering muscle underneath his hand does not escape his notice, and if anything, it encourages Arthur further. He is skinny, yes, but not utterly _skin and bone_ as Arthur discovers. Muscle is there, toned but still loose to the touch.

The continued series of kisses, never separating, damp and heady. Arthur's hand drifting alert, etching with fingernails along the shape of Merlin's chest, raking fine, dark hairs, and against the slight protrusion of his ribs, and Merlin can't seem to _breathe_ right any more.

He wants to crawl right out of his skin always stretched two-sizes smaller, especially when Arthur looks him in the eye, self-possessed and concerned. To press harder to Arthur's sword-callused hands until there's nowhere else to go and to let his own body scream out the message of how long the _emptiness_ has consumed Merlin, empty of tender feeling and happiness and another proximity of a human being. Wanting desperately to consummate what Arthur brings _back_ to him.

If he were an utter fool, and that had been spoken of more than one occasion this week, Merlin may have wondered further on what Arthur needs from him.

(" _Their companionship was unrivaled_ —")

(" _We're not_ —")

But not _what_ exactly?

Oxygen seems like a blessing, passing through Merlin's contact-numbed lips in heavy pants. But all focus on the name Arthur speaks—no, that comes out of Arthur's mouth in an awed, hot breath. Like Merlin is all parts of his litany, his source of worship.

" _Merlin_ ," a breathless murmur, from swollen pink lips, teeth glazing.

With Arthur's body indicating all it is, the nearness, heaving out little gulps for air and thrilled, chest-deep noises, Merlin gleefully sinks down into pure _sensation_ , blood-pounding. His head weighs to the threadbare couch cushion, Arthur's hand on his neck slipping away.

He wants more, _always_ more, emptiness screaming and screaming inside Merlin's veins.

More than he has been allowed for endless centuries. More clothed friction from the man above him with eyes so dark in desire Arthur is holding back, and Merlin's already warmly-flushed face burning with Arthur-scented breathes.

Merlin's stomach and the rest of his torso underneath his hoodie arches once more, with large, callous fingers faintly outlining one of his nipples. Arthur's hand moves down curiously. His lips narrow around the filling pressure of Arthur's tongue wishing to enter. He groans, low and wrecked, this time Merlin arching his entire body off of the cushions.

Having legs, and having hips collide to each other, surprisingly _harsh_. The friction undeniable, and how hard Merlin is.

 _Fuck_.

The long drag of their bodies registers.

A shaky, hushed chuckle tumbles out, as another kiss ends.

"S'rry," Merlin says.

He grins softly, breathing against the corner of mouth he would gladly spend eternity learning and re-learning with age.

"No," Arthur says, mock-accusing. "You're not."

If Merlin truly is, it would certainly be a _first_ , especially since he is not crying through the apology. Besides, Arthur hardly minds. He keeps himself from pressing flush down once more, forcing his legs to stay up, but his body gravitates closer despite it **.**

"Maybe not."

Merlin's hands let go, one digging out from the wrinkled, cotton-weaved shirt.

He pushes those pale, long fingers into Arthur's hair, smoothing strands of yellow from his forehead and eyes. Merlin's blue eyes gazing slowly over him.

"You have no idea, have you?" Merlin says, more to himself than anyone.

_Had no idea of what?_

Arthur's lips flatten in confusion, brow crinkling as he continues to gaze down at Merlin. The man's voice faint, and if the room hadn't been so incredibly quiet besides the beating of his heart, it's very possible Arthur would have missed it.

( _Of course_ , Arthur couldn't have known then and perhaps not as clearly even now. Merlin toyed with similar images, similarly-imagined smells and tastes on skin and mouth. And Merlin kept them under lock-and-key during those long years, and didn't say a _damn_ thing. Would never have. Because it was Arthur and Guinevere until the end, or nothing at all.)

Merlin finishes his thought, tilting his chin, opening his mouth to the underside of Arthur's jaw.

"How gorgeous you are like this…" he says.

" _Hm_ ," Arthur sighs out, eyes slipping shut. "I'm not a girl, Merlin."

"Alright, now you're ruining it. Shut it," Merlin tells him, laughing.

He cups the back of Arthur's head with a hand, lidding his eyes. Merlin grazes his lips, shifting over Arthur's, but kissing softly this time. Pleasure awakens where the lines of muscle and bodies grinding slow together. His cock feels unbearable _hard_ and wet. Merlin's hands slide eagerly over Arthur's hips, tugging the fabric of his trousers.

The heat coaxes his magic, heightening it, but Merlin feels no urgency to pull away in fear.

It wouldn't be _anything_ , would it? For he and Arthur to…

A sharp inhale.

Fuck.

Merlin works a hand between them. His palm covers, adjusts over where his erection is fully straining against his pants and jeans.

"This is all mucked up, isn't it?"

Arthur blinks, as if pulling himself from a daze. "What is?"

"I want this to be your choice, it has to be," Merlin says, features going solemn but smiling. His other hand clenches, moving down to Arthur's shoulder. "Because I already know what I want. Maybe I've… always been yours, no matter who I was with. It didn't need to be like that, but that's _my_ choice."

Merlin's lips quirk, adding softly, "All you can to do now is tell me, Arthur."

*

It's a sight to take in, Merlin staring up at him, face flushed red and eyes wide and blown open.

His lips a deep shade of pink, the faintest shine to them that makes Arthur want to taste again.

He's _incredible_ , and Arthur lingers in this knowledge, soaking it in. Yet, this too disappears when he notices Merlin's hand creep down.

Arthur's no fool. He realises without the slight brush of arm to stomach what Merlin feels and needs. He's been made _aware_ of the situation, both Merlin's and his own, when their bodies pushed together. Arthur would have been embarrassed, if he were the only one. This is not something he easily controls, but they're going so quickly.

Heat and excitement _rushes_ through Arthur.

Merlin… his?

 _C_ _hoosing_ to be his, over all these centuries? If he understands the meaning, and Arthur partly doesn't. After all this time, during his absence, Merlin is _his_. Arthur's. In his mind, Merlin had already been claimed in a manner, been loved and ached for by someone else, and had been for some time. But, to actually _hear_ —

He has to painstakingly rein himself, think clearly, which is a miracle on it's own. Arthur wants him.

 _God_ , does he.

The more Merlin's lips scrapes against his neck, breath hot and enticing, the more Arthur wonders why he's even considering stopping this. He could be given Merlin, all of him, rightfully and consensually. He has this chance, and Merlin offers it, so _why_ does he feels so conflicted?

Arthur doesn't want to be.

His hand now resting on Merlin's hip gives a small squeeze as his gaze trails from the warlock's lips.

"Merlin," he says, refraining from showing too much, _loathing_ how much of his hesitation shines through.

 _I want you, I need this, need you—_ it all goes unsaid, and Arthur's tempted to break from it.

His other hand slips to the junction of Merlin's throat and collar, a thumb mapping the bone there as he collects his thoughts.

"Make no mistake, I want this." Arthur's voice gains momentum, an added strength to confirm his words, "I want… you, but—"

But he can't give Merlin his all. Not now, not when his mind begins to come back to him. Arthur can't _use_ Merlin as a distraction from his thoughts, not in that way. And can't say it aloud. It would be too close to admitting that he's not as put-together in this life as he would like.

"—Are you sure this is what you want?"

*

When Merlin's lips press flush to the strong chisel of jaw, speaking against it, he savours the response, feeling the pleased hum working from Arthur's throat. Merlin shushes him, lips dragging to Arthur's skin, flashing apart as he nips gently on the jaw within reach.

It comes down, eventually, to Merlin's hand still cupping himself over his jeans crotch, dizzied from the lack of oxygen and roiling waves of his magic, from Arthur's kisses. From the close inspection, Arthur's eyes taking in all of Merlin in front of him. It hitches a small, mouthful of breath in him.

Merlin would never be used to this sort of admiration, never feel worthy.

Pale blue eyes so soft, so wide with need and emotion; Arthur's large fingers gripping Merlin's hip without forceful intent, and there's conflict laced there. In Arthur's actions, in his tone.

And Merlin wishes he could decode it all, as he may have so easily when they were younger.

Heat trails from Arthur's thumbpad, moving against Merlin's collarbone in a show of benevolence, but Merlin can't make himself heed this.

He feels wound-up so tight, not brimming with any specific notion or emotion. He _knows_ now, even without Arthur confirming that he also wants the same from Merlin. Arthur wants _familiarity_. But does he want Merlin as well, truly?

Merlin's eyes fall on the tight crease of Arthur's mouth, pushing away the desire to see it gone, either under the attentive stroke of Merlin's thumbnail or against his parting mouth.

_Are you sure this is what you want?_

(What a ridiculous question to lay out, Arthur Pendragon.)

A swipe of tongue runs along Merlin's swollen, bottom lip. A sore edge in of his voice.

"I want…"

 _You_.

(It's always been _you_. To make good on a claim. To pry apart those barren spaces left to rot inside and occupy them with the sun-warmth, chase the shadows away, with every part of yourself you would relinquish.)

It's too much to ask from Arthur presently. Far too much.

He has been through hell and Avalon and right back to the living world, jarred by the devastating changes around him and trying to save face. Arthur needs to cling to _something_ that would be familiar to him. And it shouldn't have to be forced. Arthur shouldn't have to _cling_ to anyone, certainly not to a being as saturnine and as broken as Merlin.

"I want what will make you happy," Merlin replies, smile lessened from its brightness and carelessness but no less sincere.

"And if that's waiting for you to get your head on straight, then… there's no questioning that I'll accept it." Merlin laughs, sudden and merry, raising a hand from Arthur's shoulder to pat the side of his face. He fakes a resigned sigh. "I'm used to it. S'not like I'm going anywhere."

It may have just been Merlin, but he thinks he caught a glimpse of Arthur's infamous ' _you didn't answer my question_ ' face.

"You've already given me more than I thought you might. If that has to be enough for now, then it is," Merlin says, matter-of-factly, starting to scoot upright from under Arthur.

The answer is not what Arthur expects. His chest tightens.

 _Get his head on straight_.

The idea that Merlin understands just how conflicted he is almost enough to put up his defensive barrier. He forces it down . Merlin is not accusing him. He's reassuring.

"Thank you— _wait_ , are you saying you thought I would be a prude?" Arthur asks defiantly, shifting closer and reaching down to snag Merlin's fingers.

It's just them bantering again, but in all honesty, _prude_? Arthur had court decorum to follow a-time ago, and had been and still is a very noble man with super-sized moral code, but he never seemed ashamed of his body. Merlin had no doubts of his royal marriage being consummated. It was none of his business, but he was aware.

That when Arthur _loved_ , he loved with every aspect of himself and expressed it without shame to the other person. And it included the physical, he's sure.

Merlin's heart stutters, picking up speed in his chest.

Love?

That seems a bit _much_ to assume. This isn't… something as profound as that… is it…?

A flare of embarrassed heat shoots through him, made worse by the fact Arthur still breathes near his face, still making eye contact. Merlin isn't sure how well he does, trying to direct it away, but a sunny grin overtakes his mouth.

" 'course you're not," he says in cheery sarcasm. Merlin's thumb and forefinger to his free hand pinches Arthur's cheek lightly. "I think you're perfect _just_ the way you are."

He snickers at Arthur's flabbergasted reaction, finally untangling his legs out from under the other man, getting his arm to himself again and standing.

Initially, Merlin's legs wobble from the still-faint tingling of numbness, but steady quickly.

"Up you get, c'mon!" Merlin calls loudly over his shoulder, heading for the hallway, "Got to set the alarm for morning. We're not missing the bus because you want to lay about in bed—and I'm not dragging your arse around."

And to be safe, the alarm is joining Merlin on the settee tonight.

*


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh gosh, 15 chapters and almost 200 comments later, we're here!! ✿◕ ‿ ◕✿ I'm completely amazed and I love every one of you who has left your thoughts or a kudos, seriously. That means so much to the person who is writing. I never expected in my wildest dreams for this fic to get this much love, and THANK YOU. THANK YOU A MILLION TIMES.
> 
> I'd like to thank my newest beta [veritably_mad](http://archiveofourown.org/users/veritably_mad/pseuds/veritably_mad/) for helping me out last minute and everyone who has supported me so far. As well as my Britpick [ememmyem](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ememmyem/pseuds/ememmyem) who saved my neck. Half of this fic wouldn't exist without [marlena_darling](http://archiveofourown.org/users/marlena_darling/pseuds/marlena_darling) and I wanna say thank you for taking this journey with me and you've been a best friend to me. I love you lots and this is ours.

*

Sleep evades Arthur even after the cottage has quieted down.

It certainly doesn't help that the warm sheets help him think of Merlin. Arthur fights valiantly against the phantom touches, the reminder of plush lips and fingers trailing along his skin. After restless turning and a few frustrated groans, he _finally_ drifts off.

The next morning thankfully leaves him little time for his mind to wander.

Merlin, as usual, is a flurry of energy in the process of getting them up and clothed. He is used to Merlin dragging him out of the sluggish morning routine, sometimes literally, but it's _obnoxious_. Arthur wonders if this is a good idea.

He looks like a cheap imitation of himself in the red shirt, one so much like the kind he favoured in years past. Arthur finds it almost bizarre after the last few days of wearing clothes like Merlin's. Of course he seen himself at the shoppe, yet questions it more now. But he can only stare at his reflection for so long, and Arthur does his best to ignore the way Merlin gauges the outfit on him.

Before he knows it, they are on their way Arthur complaining about their rush.

The bus is definitely not what Arthur expects. The lorries he had seen were rather large, but the bus surpasses all comparisons he seen so far—and he truly hopes they don't get much _bigger_. The metal contraption hisses like the foul creatures inhabiting caves of old when it stops. The bumps and jerks catch Arthur off-guard.

He snatches Merlin's arm without thinking, grip tight as he keeps his gaze studiously off of him. Arthur doesn't mention the passing scowl he witnesses on the elderly woman's mouth across from them.

With a good amount of distance putting them further from the bus stop and nearer to the entrance to the park grounds, Merlin gives himself a moment to observe his surroundings.

His concerns about the temperature for the weather had been right, and he is glad for the over-sized, brown jacket over his shoulders. The autumn wind a touch below chilling, reddening the faces of the small group ahead of him on the dirt path leading ahead. Laughing and smiling and clasping hands. Dressed up in bright, elaborate costumes.

A part of Merlin dreads to know the blatant mockery of his happiest years.

But if Arthur enjoys himself, then he will ignore it.

Merlin shoves his hands into his pockets with reserved acceptance, side-eyeing the blond man staring up at the long, bold banners and tattered flags hanging high above, as they walk on. Arthur took his first bus ride… fairly well. With the exception of his startled jolts. Merlin's hand still feels the brief heat where Arthur's hand automatically clutched his, even as the ride became less stressful.

Merlin's buckled boots kick at dry, ashy-smelling dirt, as he turns to Arthur, starting to open up a paper map for the faire's layout.

"Oi, simpleton," he says, dryly, snapping his fingers in front of Arthur's face to get his wandering attention. "Where do you want to go first?"

Arthur aims an irritated half-scowl at him before stepping closer to look over Merlin's shoulder. The grounds don't appear incredibly vast, but enough to occupy them. A sense of excitement returns to him as soon as he sees the title printed in the top.

_Albion's Return._

He spots the big, familiar, square shape towards the center of the diagram, and Arthur immediately gestures to it.

"There," he exclaims, looking from the map to the faire in front of him, then finally to Merlin. "You said I should sign up for the tournament. Might as well do it now."

Merlin's hands feels chapped and dry to the terribly cold weather. But he continues scanning his eyes over the map he had been handed upon entering the park grounds (by a overly-enthused, shivering worker bundled in a thickly-padded winter jacket hundreds of years out of the 'renaissance' time period. She tugged at her tri-colored, sequin jester hat over her exposure-pinkened ears while greeting him and Arthur).

On the same thread of thought, while there are sport jackets and beanie hats among the crowds, the vast majority of faire-goes attend in full costume, including riding boots and finely woven cloaks and leather vests. An array of centuries to behold: the Classical Antiquity, Middle Ages, and the Renaissance. And whether or not the costumes were hand-made or purchased, Merlin can not fathom a guess.

Some are so exquisitely cut and detailed, resembling what he himself had witnessed through the ages, that Merlin notices himself staring longingly on more than one occasion. Others are more simply done, natural colors and material, and it _still_ flutters at his insides.

He wants to remain skeptical, despite the warmth pooling in his chest. Arthur's hand falls on the map, tapping a finger impatiently to the 'Arena/Registration Entry'.

Merlin glances up at Arthur's eyes, and Merlin's lips lift up slowly at the unmistakable, visible liveliness.

"Certainly," he agrees, rolling the paper map into a thin cylinder in his right hand. "After you then."

Merlin points onward with the map, mocking a forehead salute with it, and grins at the eye-roll.

Great, browning-from-green trees border the surrounding park.

The distinct, satisfying smell of the wood from pines and beeches, mixing along with what Merlin pinpoints as the aromas of popular, fattening faire-confectioneries (also hundreds of years out of the established 'time'—but they all have to eat somehow, and he wonders vaguely how Arthur would react being given something positively sugar coated).

In the fragmented lines of people milling around, Merlin's eyes spy one of the faire-goers in unremarkable, dark street clothes, but his beefy fingers covered in hunky, plastic-gold rings, and wearing a very large, very frilled collar. A sticked-on nametag on his shirt scrawls messily in black permanent marker: "The Bard".

To clinch it is the wonderful likeness in features to the famous poet.

Merlin can't help the noisy laugh he stifles with his palm, shoulders trembling with the effort to keep it in, as he and the heavily-framed man briefly meet gazes. The Bard bestows on him a flawlessly timed finger-point accompanied by a tongue-click and a wink.

When he and Arthur pass that line, and head on towards the center of the faire, Merlin removes his hand from clamping over his mouth, chancing a beaming side-look at his companion.

"You would have liked Shakespeare." Merlin frowns contemplatively.

"Actually, no," he corrects himself after a pause, with a hint of smugness. " _No_ , you wouldn't have. Far too clever for the likes of you."

*

In Arthur's perspective, the faire is an odd mixture of awareness and confusion.

Some people dress much like the townspeople, others in larger, older outfits that make Arthur question if they truly know _anything_ about what they are attempting to replicate.

A few women pass in costumes that instantly clash alive in Arthur's mind, quite like a memory without reach. The woman in the middle wears a dress a similar shade of blue to one of Morgana's dresses, Arthur realises vaguely. The two on either of her sides are in much simpler, plainer dresses.

He pays little mind to the smile the woman sends him as they cross paths, his attention already on the rest of the grounds.

The smell in the air is an oddly sweet aroma. And from somewhere not far off, he can hear lively music (unlike the kind playing in the market, to Arthur's relief). So far it does not disappoint, and Arthur feels himself relax into his posture.

As they walk, there's plenty to take in, but he whips his head around at a loud snort of laughter from Merlin. He looks over and follows Merlin's gaze to a man with a ridiculous collar sticking out of his shirt. Arthur hardly understands what's funny. When the man winks at Merlin though, Arthur's chin tips upward as his eyebrows raise, eyes going from him to Merlin.

Despite the sudden jerk in his stomach and urge to glare at the man as they pass, he listens as Merlin speaks, the name not ringing any bells.

He snorts in response, turning his gaze back ahead to search for the sign for the arena.

"Must've hated you then," Arthur comments. He reaches over and raps his knuckles gently on the top of Merlin's head. "Hardly anything up there."

Merlin jerks his head away, rubbing mildly at it.

"So you would think," he replies, appearing unruffled by the insult. " _But_ you do have a tendency to be wrong on these sort of things."

Arthur had been correct about one detail: Merlin _had_ met Shakespeare during his temporary stay in London in the 1600s.

Around the final period of his life when Shakespeare composed his tragicomedies. Found the poet/playwright to be eccentric and intensely brooding, and at times his moods jumped to extremes within hours. After a few rounds at the tavern, he was easier to speak to, and prone to affectionate gestures which Merlin took with polite courtesy. He promised halfheartedly to the drunkard to one day accept the request of playing the role of mischievous Ariel from the 'Tempest' at the Globe.

Shakespeare was a _genius_ , beyond reasoning, and if Merlin could have abide such fanciful, ambitious thoughts of "friendship" so soon out the 14th century (the memory of the clash against the 'Black Death' sorcerer and Merlin's burning at the stake far too fresh), he might have called the playwright something similar to that notion.

For far longer than he cares to admit, Merlin's heart only wanted to accept _one_ friend, trapped deep in the murky waters.

A banner hanging over a wooden stand makes them go forward. The words 'Tournament Challenge' proudly for all to see along with Coat of Arms on its side. A man in a checkered blue-and-white tunic stands underneath it, chain-mail hiding the design. Arthur doesn't bother to nudge Merlin, assuming he would catch on.

The man glances up in time to see Arthur approach and tosses a smile, straightening up.

"Good morrow, my Lords." He greets, with dipping himself in a bow, and Arthur blinks. "Art thou interested in joining up for a match?"

"Aye," Arthur responds.

He casts a glance at Merlin as the man ducks his head to pull out parchment and a quill (which Arthur realises is actually a pen disguised, after a closer look).

Merlin yanks himself back to attention, already stilling next the sign. One of the costumed workers at the stand eye the pair of them with a genuinely friendly disposition. And Merlin is glad he did not remain memory-dazed when Arthur looks over his shoulder. Merlin arranges his face to a small, encouraging grin when summer-blue eyes examine him momentarily.

"And for what event may I put ye down?"

"Sword fighting," Arthur says, and the checkered man peers up, eyes flickering over him casually.

"Have ye handled a sword before?" he asks, then in a lower voice adds, "I have to ask before allowing you to use our equipment. Cost reasons."

Withholding a smirk doesn't work as well as Arthur attempts, but he does bite back a scoff as he nods. "I can very well use a sword."

" _Splendid_!" he cries, switching back into his mock accent as he lowers the quill.

Merlin does his best to not laugh, tilting his face down, when it becomes obvious (at least to him) that Arthur is uncertain of the badly exaggerated Elizabethan accent, but silently congratulates Arthur on hiding it. And his certain irritation of being doubted in handling a sword. The irony of all of this is _splendid_ , indeed.

"And your name?"

"Arthur," he says automatically, and a lighthearted snort from the register cuts him off.

"Shall I add Pendragon on the end, milord?"

Arthur chews on his tongue, a scorch of annoyance flashing through him at the jab. To hear his full name uttered by a complete stranger is a shock, yes. He keeps it to himself.

"De Bois," Arthur says instead, a building lump in his throat. "Arthur de Bois."

He receives another evaluating look from the register before earning a nod, and the name scribbled down.

"And you, lad?"

Arthur scoffs this time, lips curling as he looks over at Merlin. "He won't be competing."

Merlin's head jerks up as he's addressed, eyes rounding.

He chuckles dismissively as Arthur answers for him (with a kind of jeering conviction that almost makes Merlin want to prickle up at it). "I'm afraid he's right," Merlin says. "I'm not much of a swordsman."

"Mayhap ye be interested in other contests, my lord! Pray thee an occasion to surmise!" The checker-tunic man presents out his parchment-covered clipboard, pointing to a list. In the same whispery voice previous, he adds in Merlin's direction, "You don't necessarily need to enter the main tournament to participate in any of these."

"Uhm… thank thee," Merlin says in possibly even more terribly pronounced Elizabethan, puzzled by the show of enthusiasm, but taking his chances in considering the list. Nothing particular strikes a chord with him (as _a lot_ being offered has to do with challenging an opponent's strength and endurance). Until he reaches the end of the list, and Merlin's eyes arrives at the word **_Archery_**.

A surge of forgotten thrill grapples at him, and Merlin traces his finger over it.

"This one. I'll participate in this," he announces, a tad bit embarrassed at how breathless his voice sounds.

The man takes back his clipboard, poising his fake-quill to scribble.

"A name, my lord?"

"Leon." Merlin fights to get his heart to stop thudding against the walls of his throat. His magic drums faintly along with it. "Leon Uhas."

"Outstanding!"

The other man's enthusiastic, crooked grin drops away in mere seconds, as does the ridiculous language, as he informs them solemnly, "And before I have you lot registered, I'll have you both sign waivers for precaution, stating that you are aware of the risks to any injuries during the events and that the faire and its staff members are not held liable."

He hands the fake-quill over to Merlin, who is closest.

Giving the two stapled sheets a cursory glance, he signs it, handing it to Arthur with a silent, curt look of 'as if'. Very little can do damage to Merlin, but it's even more ludicrous to imagine that Merlin would _allow_ such grievous harm to his friend. Not that Merlin plans on interfering during his matches. He's fully aware that Arthur's skills are enough to keep from injury. _Al_ _so_ he would never hear the end of it from Arthur.

But the idea of Merlin competing in any form of sport brings an amused smirk to Arthur's features.

 _Well_ , meaning, not well at all.

Of course there were times where he had gotten lucky, and Merlin had a basic understanding, but there is a reason Arthur and the other knights used him for target practice instead of a sparring partner. The quiet laugh from Merlin confirms it, though in less of an insulted manner than Arthur had been expecting, yet the checkered man passes Merlin the list anyways.

He knows it is only a matter of time before Merlin looks over the sheet and hands it back, obviously uninterested in whatever is there.

Arthur's gaze begins to drift to the people milling around once more. It isn't until he hears the breathless tone that Arthur pays attention again. He barely catches the word 'archery' above the tip of Merlin's finger before the clipboard is taken back.

What on _earth_ was he thinking?

Arthur has witnessed Merlin miss a saddlebag when attempting to throw something back in it, has watched him stumble backwards with the force of a crossbow. Not to mention he was, and still is, a clumsy git.

He lifts the fake quill, deciding not read it over before signing. In Arthur's day, there had been no waivers. The idea is simply ridiculous.

"Yer first match begins at midday, milord. The bracket is posted outside the arena. Best of luck to you both."

Arthur glances over to the 'arena', which is more or less a wooden corral with wide enough space for fighters, along with the stands making a U-shape around it. A plaque hammered into one of the posts indicates the first round around early afternoon. He steps back and gives Merlin a look before going around the stand further back into the faire area.

As soon as they were out of earshot, Arthur laughs.

" _Archery_?" He says, voice thick with sarcastic disbelief, "Do you even know how to _hold_ a bow, Merlin?"

*

It's hard to miss Arthur's failure to cover up his laughter with a ragged cough.

Merlin's elbow hits home to the ribs of the person behind him. Subtly. Very subtle, but with enough blunt pressure to get his ' _come off it, you wanker_ ' message across.

For as long as Merlin knew him, he understood that Arthur doubted his ability to exhibit any form of athleticism (and Merlin has to agree: he abhorred most sports in general, past and present). In Camelot, Merlin often grouched and complained about the ruthless nature of hunting, about the brutality of training practices on his sore arms and muscles when he was forced to be the shield-hit, about the insistent, obvious danger Arthur put himself in for the royal jousting tournaments like an idiot.

But, when it came to archery… he had been familiar with the recreation. From his early years in Ealdor.

The bow or two Merlin got his hands on had been old, well-used and strung taut with animal sinew, but carved with yew wood. Strong and resilient.

His mother thought it would have been good for him, training his mind and body, training himself on pure concentration since Merlin had been a scatterbrained, impulsive child growing up—and those characteristics, combined with the wild essence of his abundant magic, made a recipe for disaster.

She cheered him on during the village's contests, kissing his face gently when he had lost. And Merlin lost every contest, coming in second place to Will. Out of irrational fear of being accused of using his sorcery as an advantage, when the thought never crossed his mind, and then losing one of his only closest friends. Whether or not Hunith knew Merlin had thrown each time, she did not accuse him of such. Merely cradled his face between her labour-callused, warm hands and told him how _proud_ she was of him.

A knot rises in Merlin's throat, from a distant fondness of her.

He nods to the costumed worker wishing him well, making a mental note about 'midday' for Arthur's tournament, and joins the blond man in staring upwards at the plaque. The archery competition is two events before they needed to get ready for Arthur's.

Merlin's expression remains devoid of emotion when Arthur shoots him an amused glance and barely looks like he could believe what just happened. Which only twists up Merlin's mouth in exasperation.

He answered Arthur's sarcasm with, "Guess we'll find out soon enough," eyes trailing across his busy surroundings. The exasperation fades away, replaced by an impish grin, and Merlin turns back towards Arthur.

"How about a friendly wager then, to make it more interesting?" Merlin suggests, flatly so not to appear too eager by the prospect.

He folds his jacketed arms across his front, cocking his head slightly.

"A _wager_?"

"If I somehow manage to beat the rest of competition, you'll scrub the cottage from top to bottom. For the next two weeks. AND be on dish-duty, no complaints." Merlin's eyes flicker with a fair amount of self-satisfaction. "And if I lose, you'll get a manservant once more for those two weeks. But no sorcery to be used to speed up the chores, and there'll be a guarantee of no cheating. I will be at your beck and call, whenever you want, for whatever you need. Also no complaints—"

Merlin inclines himself a little towards Arthur, raising an eyebrow in benign defiance and adding, slyly, "—unless that's what you fancy."

Arthur's expression grows more intrigued. The idea of cleaning and doing dishes for _two weeks_ does not hold appeal in the slightest. It's enough for him to shift thoughtfully on his feet.

But… Merlin as his manservant again for a few weeks, compared to the overly sassy, independent man who argued with him for putting a plate on a blasted table. Yes, that could be quite nice indeed.

But it's a fair trade— servants duties for servant duties. It just depends on who wins.

Arthur's lips curl as he pretends to think it over, but he points at Merlin. "No magic," he says, firmly. "If I see even a flash of gold, I'm calling it off. But I accept your terms."

Merlin's eyes watch the corner-curl of Arthur's lip with faint amusement, and then Arthur's forefinger jabbing in his direction.

_No magic._

Did Arthur honestly think Merlin would _cheat_ a fair game like this? A prickle of unpleasant heat grapples at his stomach, making the skin of his arms and chest flush.

He pushes away the reminder of Ealdor. The poisonous heat, snaking and winding in and out of his gut, altogether disappears as the minutes pass, as the implied (and playful, perhaps to Arthur) subject of "cheating" rolls off their shoulders, and the nearby presence of Arthur imprints comfortably on his magic.

As dumbfounding as it _shouldn't_ be, but is to Merlin all the same, fragments and ripples of his magic drift around his King, as if allured, as if fiercely magnetised to him.

It _favours_ Arthur.

And, it has never been so strong before, that swirling pull of Merlin's power towards the other man. Reaching and rooting into the ground surrounding them, like at the cottage when Merlin released it. He had _felt_ the pressure of Arthur's footsteps where they fell inside, out of view from Merlin's eyes, and the torchlight warmth of his mortality.

It flickers, like all mortal souls did on this world. Other multitudes of souls fainter, and they are fainter of either heart or of health.

Not Arthur, never a man like Arthur who carries in him the fortitude and courage of ten thousand warriors risen to take arms. Whose soul-light is the purest radiance Merlin has ever been accustomed to up close, and it starts to tremor at the marrow of his bones.

Merlin assumes Arthur doesn't sense any of the magic around him. After all, the other man has not truly ever accepted Merlin's magic now.

The chill of the air lifts slowly.

Merlin rubs at his arms with some absence of thought and frowns pensively.

"Well, it's certainly reassuring to know how much trust you put in _me_." The final word rolls off Merlin's tongue with as much blunt ridicule as he can force behind it. Merlin starts walking ahead, but he doesn't make it far before Arthur's hand locates his shoulder and begins directing him. Merlin keeps his mouth shut and he marches alongside his friend.

"I'll need food to keep my strength up. You might as well eat, so you can't blame a shaky arm on an empty stomach." Arthur's tone is teasing, as usual, because he isn't about to let this go. Without magic, Arthur can't see this ending well. Might as well get him a good meal before Merlin gets pouty.

There are plenty of smells coming from different places across the faire, the air a mix of smoky and savoury. He has seen women dressed in peasant attire sitting by large pots of stew, fires crackling tamely underneath, but most people appear to flock to stands lined with foods only half-familiar to Arthur. No matter, it all smells good, especially after a rushed breakfast.

"You're like a daft parrot," Merlin says, reaching up for the hand on his shoulder, squeezing it.

Arthur's hand drifts away from Merlin's shoulder as they pause in line, Arthur's attention still exploring and checking out the lists of food. Some people pass by, the men holding burly chunks of smoked meat wrapped in silvery foil, their mouths full with large bites. Arthur raises his eyebrows again.

"We were not all so barbaric," he grumbles, but it feels like a childish remark. Besides, he and his men had never been the most graceful of eaters.

"At least nothing got clumped in your beard. Seeing as you never properly had one."

 _That_ is a strange thought. Arthur with a full beard. Merlin isn't sure he would have enjoyed that.

Arthur seems, however, intrigued, smiling. Merlin does _not_ think a full beard suits his dear companion. Rather, it would be unsightly. And he is not reassured by the contemplative twinkle in summery-blue eyes.

"Y'know, I'm not particular of getting that much stubble-burn," Merlin responds flatly, patting Arthur's cheek.

Someone in the line behind them giggles softly. When Merlin's blue eyes flick over in the general direction of it, he finds no immediately suspicious faces.

"How about that? It's pork." Merlin jerks his chin to the BBQ-On-A-Stick selection. A brief memory of rat stew hovers in his mind, and he bites down a rising grin. It had been _terrible_ when Arthur ordered him to consume two lukewarm bowls of it. Oh, and stringy.

"Yes, alright."

At the ordering window, Merlin pays for two of the pork, a basket of chips, and a sugared 'fairy cake'. Arthur wrinkles his nose— a _what_? What on earth—?

"It'll be tenner along with the cake; they'll call you when it's ready," the teenager informs him, handing Merlin a numbered slip, voice thick with boredom.

"Cheers," Merlin replies brightly, gripping his own meal and the basket. He leads the way to one of the empty picnic tables, brushing away leftover crumbs from his seat. "Try it," he insists to Arthur, nodding to the chips as Merlin places it in the center of the table. "They're better with tomato sauce, but, still very good."

"Let's hope this tastes better than your cooking."

"Trust me, it's not what it sounds like," he reassures Arthur about the fairy cake, sitting across from him at the over-sized picnic table. "Nothing magical about it."

Arthur raises the meat, eyeing Merlin, then strips some off.

It's not half bad. He gives an approving noise and takes another, hand lowering a little.

A small, thankful smile flits over Merlin's features. He digs into the basket of chips, picking a few, and swallows the thick, potatoey paste in his mouth down. Was right, they'd taste better with _anything_.

From behind him, an elderly gentleman dressed in long, starry-blue robes hovers not far off, a staff in one hand.

One of the groups of men passing their table shouts, " _Oi look, Merlin showed up!_ "

Arthur promptly drops the meat on the wrapping it came with. He turns and outright laughs, staring back at his companion.

"Apparently, you have a doppleganger, _Mer_ lin."

A single look over his shoulder confirms it, and Merlin slumps forward in groaning annoyance, one of his hands cradling his forehead.

"You've got to be _joking_ ," he mutters to the table.

Merlin doesn't need to turn around again to confirm it's a badly dressed _wizard_ flocked admiringly to, with ridiculously coloured and elaborately star-printed robes. One of those paid actors at some festivals he heard about. Stupid pointy 'wizard' hat with stupid stars and where the _hell_ did medieval storytelling go so wrong?

Arthur's boisterous laughter only makes Merlin send a narrow-eyed death glare worthy of Uther's standards.

To make matters worse, the _imposter_ hears Arthur.

"My, how can there be two Merlins, my lads?" The elderly man, with a waist-length, snow white beard to assist the _damned_ stereotype, approaches the table, not without some children grinning and beaming from another picnic table. Merlin's right eyebrow twitches in his growing irritation, but only faintly.

He closes his eyes, letting his forehead smack back to his open palm. "There's no such thing," he answers, loudly, not bothering to mask the exasperation from his tone.

To his relief, though short-lived, the fake-Merlin treads away to approach the children yelling for him. Speaks to them as they bounce eagerly on their parents' laps, mouths smeared in candy floss and other junk food.

"Magic is a very sacred practice, and must always be respected, younglings," the elderly man proclaims in a booming voice. His fake-staff in his gnarled hand thrusts into the soil with deliberation. "It takes many years of skill and patience to master."

Merlin throws out an arm in front of him, straightening up where he sits and gesturing with an expression of 'no fucking _really_ , I had no idea'.

"But the most important magic you will ever learn, is what comes from your heart."

"I think I'm actually going to be ill before the day is over," Merlin says, face pinched, low enough to not be overheard. He kicks Arthur soundly in the shin, under the table, as the laughter from his companion starts up again.

_"Number 25!"_

Blue eyes scans the crumpled ticket, hopefully.

Merlin leans back, clutching the siding of the table, and murmurs a soundless and heartfelt ' _thank you_ ' to the heavens before scrambling out of his bench.

"We're not coming back, let's go, Arthur," sounds more like a barked order than a voice, and Merlin doesn't coddle the passing thought. He heads for the window and receives the warm, doughy dessert from the same, bored teenager not batting an eyelash.

Arthur finally regains control of himself, following, laughter subsiding.

"Did you hear that? From the heart, that was _touching_. Did he quote that from you?"

Arthur enjoys this brand of humiliation _far_ too much. Eyes alight with laughter, brimming as it issues from his throat. In a way, this is desperately nostalgic towards their early years.

Seeing Arthur like this, picking on his manservant for whatever fumbling he had done in manner or behavior. Sometimes not mean-spirited in jesting as his prince would nudge at Merlin's shoulder with an elbow or a sharp rap on the very top of his head with a closed, ringed fist. And it isn't that Merlin couldn't provide a verbal jab back, just as easily as those seemingly innocent days… he just…

It feels harder, and Merlin's unaccustomed to it now. _Tired_.

"No, that dolt quoted from a rubbish telly program for kids that _you_ are never going to lay eyes on," he says, lacing the warning between his words.

"I don't see why you don't wear one of those robes," Arthur says, chuckling. "You never know, they could be flattering. Besides, you always took a liking to Morgana's gowns."

Merlin realizes after a moment, as Arthur joins him near a sparse patch of grass, that their basket of chips was left behind on the now crowded picnic table. He does _not_ second a further thought on going back to retrieve it. Nope.

Arthur still has that pompous smirk on him.

 _Prat_.

Merlin lets out a loud, pleasant-sounding laugh into the cold air. Cheeks stinging red. Frosty vapor drifting around his mouth.

Arthur would deny the fact soundly if anyone asked, but he revels in this. It's rare, the smile and laughter. It never used to be, nor had Arthur ever believed that would be a problem for _Merlin_ of all people, but it has become incredibly clear that the years have changed him. To prove that his friend is capable of anything other than a blank look or sarcasm is motivation for Arthur to keep trying.

"Was that a common thought for you? Having me parading around in women's clothing for your marveling?" Merlin mimics a guarded noise with closed, upturned lips, tilting an eyebrow up. " _Hmm…_ I don't think I should enable your fetishism," he adds, "certainly not in public."

A disbelieving, barking laugh from Arthur.

"I should certainly hope not. Seeing you going about in women's clothing would damage someone's eyes."

Arthur can't believe the audacity of that statement. _Him_ , imagining Merlin in women's clothing? It _has_ crossed his mind, of course, whenever he caught Merlin with the damned things held up against him as if for a fitting, but nothing more. Absolutely ridiculous. "Wouldn't fit your frail figure," Arthur says.

The warlock bites down on his lower lip, exposing a bit of teeth.

"If I twisted that sentence around… could there be an non-sexist remark about women in there just now?" Merlin sends him an outrageously shocked look, though mocking, and claps Arthur's shoulder gruffly. "I'm very proud of you," he says. "There may be hope in you joining the 21st century yet."

Merlin's fingers break apart a bit of the sugar-topped fried dough, popping it into his mouth as he calmly examines Arthur.

After a minute, he breaks off another large piece, moaning ravenously (but quietly enough to not draw attention from any bystander). " _Ommhhgaa_." Merlin wipes under his chin with a sleeve, cheeks bulging. He points at the dessert repeatedly. " _Arrhha thhhdsss_."

"Is is possible for you to sound more like a fool than you do now?" Arthur asks after trying, and failing, to translate Merlin's food-stuffed message.

He snatches the plate from Merlin after staring at it apprehensively, then uses the fork to rip off a piece for himself. Arthur's jaw slowly churns through the sticky, thick dough. It's… surprisingly good. His tongue darts out to wipe off the dusting of sugar left on his lower lip.

In the process of wiping the sugary topping off of his mouth with his sleeve (it's a bloody well _delicious_ mess), a smudge of the white powder flecks on the tip of Merlin's nose, unnoticed.

He steals a little bit more off the plate as Arthur eats his portion. However, the sneaky move isn't overlooked and Merlin's hand jerks away from a playful stab.

Merlin pushes up his powder-smudged tunic sleeve at the wrist, examining his watch.

His eyes fly wide-open.

" _Thhhcawwtss_!" he muffles out, swallowing down his chewed mouthful with some difficulty, and clasps Arthur's forearm. "We need to go! Now."

"Hang on," Arthur protests, the noise muffled by his dough-macked mouth. He tugs his arm away.

He doesn't need to be _led_ , thank you.

*


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A QUICK CHAPTER UPDATE, WOO! I wasn't positive it was going to happen today because I got trapped in a car heading out to West Chicago... when I only needed to head to my town's public library, lol. BUT IT'S HERE. I HOPE YOU ENJOY.
> 
> I'd like to thank my newest beta [veritably_mad](http://archiveofourown.org/users/veritably_mad/pseuds/veritably_mad/) for helping me out last minute and everyone who has supported me so far. As well as my Britpick [ememmyem](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ememmyem/pseuds/ememmyem) who saved my neck. Half of this fic wouldn't exist without [marlena_darling](http://archiveofourown.org/users/marlena_darling/pseuds/marlena_darling) and I wanna say thank you for taking this journey with me and you've been a best friend to me. I love you lots and this is ours.

*

The archery range has been set up towards the direction of the woods, likely cleared out from any wandering park inhabitants, for safety measures. Merlin hustles them towards the outer ring of the faire grounds, following where the map indicates it. Breathing heavily, he stops in front of the check-in table, supplying his name when asked.

A middle-aged woman fiddling with her fake-quill marks him off.

"You'll find equipment in the tent with the rest of the competitors. A staff member will lead you to your assigned section when it's time to start." She eyes Arthur with mild and impersonal disdain. "Competitors are the only ones allowed beyond the table, sorry."

Arthur isn't yet adjusted to this time enough to understand why she eyes him as if he might be potential trouble. He merely nods in response, not indulging his desire to say something that would earn a glare from Merlin, and instead he turns and clasps the man's shoulder.

"Don't fail too miserably," is what Arthur says, his grin flashing as he shoots Merlin a pointed look.

It's magnetic almost, the way Merlin's eyes draw up when Arthur licks at his bottom lip, as his tongue flicks out.

He tries not to let it distract his attention. Even so, when Merlin finds himself ready to enter the range, he's fighting down a warm, swimmy feeling in his chest.

Merlin answers him with a half-smile over his shoulder, pausing from opening the orange flap of the tent. The words that escape from Merlin's mouth don't process until it is far too late. (Then again, making off with the opportunity to be the cause of a slack-jawed reaction from Arthur should never be wasted.)

"Believe me, I plan on fully appreciating seeing you on your hands and knees for the next two weeks."

Arthur opens his mouth, but shakes his head, astonished.

 _Lord have mercy_ —

He wanders along the thin brown railing blocking out the perimeter of the range. Arthur settles off to the side, parallel to the stands of arrows lining up across the field. He would have a decent enough view, and enough to see if Merlin does cheat. Arthur crosses his arms as he leans forward against the railing, resting his weight there as he surveys the area. He hasn't even noticed the presence of another until he sees her out of the corner of his eye.

A woman there: tall, with dark skin and hair just a shade darker. She wears a long white dress with billowed sleeves drooping towards the ground, a inky-black cloak covering her shoulders and back. Kind eyes too, and a bright smile to match as Arthur finds out when she catches his attention.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to stare. I was looking towards the tent," she apologises, smile growing sheepish. Arthur offers a small, polite smile back.

"It's quite alright."

"Exciting, isn't it? I've never watched a competition. Have you?" The question, and the open friendliness, is disarming, but he smiles again. _Of course he had._

"Several times," Arthur answers. "Shouldn't disappoint, hopefully."

She shivers, hands lifting to push back some of her wavy hair as a light breeze blows past. "Oh, I'm sure it won't," the woman replies, then as an afterthought she presents one of her hands to Arthur. "My name is Gilda."

He accepts her hand, gently, and folds his opposite hand over hers in a friendly gesture. "Arthur."

*

The flap trails over his back as Merlin enters, and he misses the suspicious, analytical look from the check-in woman.

As he guesses, most the equipment has been raided through, like the protective-wear. Only two or three bows in the wall's rack available. One of them a compound, and the other two longbows. Merlin reaches for a longbow.

"Not that one," comes a voice, firm and insistent, and he freezes.

A girl with braided red hair stares from the bench nearby. At the confused blink, she points to the bow, matter-of-factly. "See the damage? How the upper limb has a dent on it? You don't wanna use it."

Merlin leans in towards the rack, narrowing his eyes. She's definitely right.

The fiberglass _also_ had the tiniest crack along it. Most likely from wear. But he doubts she had caught that as well.

"Oh," he says, simply. "Thank you."

She nods, then smiles widely. Almost teasingly. Her legs swing out from tucking underneath her on the bench. "That must have been some conversation you were having." The girl adds, and he's mildly taken aback by the strong American accent, "I heard you coming in."

_("Believe me, I plan on fully appreciating seeing you on your hands and knees for the next two weeks.")_

"Right, um." Merlin lets out an embarrassed laugh. "We were—I was only—screwing around with my mate." At her slow eyebrow raise, he feels like disappearing into the mud beneath his boots. "Not like—"

The redheaded girl displays both of her gloved hands, still smiling. "Hey, none of my business," she announces.

Merlin turns away, grabbing the next bow and makes a face to himself, knocking his forehead to the bow.

 _Dolt_.

"Subject change for you: Is it your first time in a competition?"

His head whirls back in her direction. "Not really," he replies, not off-put by her attempt at conversation. She seems nice enough for a fellow competitor. Didn't let him pick the broken bow, that's good for him. Merlin lets his eyes trail over the new one, checking for the same flaws. He murmurs, "Bows haven't changed that much, looks like."

It's more of a comment to himself, but the girl laughs again, making an intrigued, " _Ohh_? Have you been around a few centuries?"

Merlin arranges his features into a thin, knowing smile.

"Never know." He steps forward, holding out his right hand. "I'm Leon."

Her pale hand slaps into his palm, squeezing with eager force and then slides away, curling and bumping her knuckles lightly to his.

"Charlie, dude. It's not my real name though."

Must be a faire thing. The name, not the fistbump. Come to think of it, Merlin doesn't think he ever fistbumped someone.

"What is it then?"

She wags an index finger at him, grinning. "Ah-ah, I saw that, buddy boy. Can't tell you. Hence the name-change."

He grins back.

Feeling ridiculously brave for the moment, Merlin admits lowly, cheeks strangely warm, "Leon isn't mine either."

Charlie snickers, but it was not an unkind noise.

"You didn't look like a Leon anyway." She quickly tosses him something in the air. He scrambles, dropping one item. In his hands a fingerpad, and the dropped item being an archery bracer. Older and stretched out, but still good for use. "More like a Colin, if you had a nice goatee going on."

He straps on the protective-wear, thanking her, and picking up his bow.

One of the staff members gestures for them, and Merlin heads out. She punches his shoulder, beaming, "Rock on, loser," and he watches her go towards the end of the line of archers, torn between laughing like mad and regretting the missed chance to wish her luck.

Merlin fumbles with his shooting stance as the announcer for the contest goes over the rules and safety, and when the signal would be given.

Everyone would fire three arrows at their own targets, one at a time and within a time frame. After each arrow fired, the designated competition marker would record the points given. Whoever ended up with the most points won. Basic enough, and similar to Ealdor.

"Positions!" His arms feels stiff at their joints, his back muscles pinging with aching strain, unaccustomed to the stance as he nocks one of the arrows handed to him, wrapping his fingers to hold the arrow in place.

Just as Merlin pulls back, ready to aim, an air horn goes off in the crowd, startling him and the person next to him.

But, Merlin's arrow is the one to fly off without his permission, about ten feet before sinking into the muddy ground. Flushing darkly, and sure all of his face is the same color, he begrudgingly accepts another arrow from an official.

A voice from the speakers over the tent announces coolly, "Anyone caught disrupting the competition from this moment may be subject to removal from the premises. And a _reminder_ to all competitors to please wait until the signal is made before shooting your arrows."

A couple of giggles surround him, and Merlin ignores them in favour of concentrating on his target and his actions.

"Positions!"

He nocks again, drawing his bow up. His muscles feel more fluid this time, less stiff. The tension… _perfect_.

Merlin inhales deeply, letting his subconscious aim for him, and tunneling his focus ahead.

All becomes quiet around him.

His exhale sounds like a dull roar. The signal given.

The arrow releases, flying.

*

"So, you've been to these faires before then, Arthur?" Gilda asks.

Her posture is poised and elegant, as if she's meant to wear the garments of a noblewoman. Her skin a light brown and her face strong-boned. Arthur half-expects for her maids to come along and bustle her out of sight of the competition. In a way, it makes him more comfortable.

"Now and again," Arthur responds, figuring it's safer than most answers. "It was a bit of a family tradition, you might say."

Gilda nods in interest, her head turning to look in area around them. "I went to one when I was younger. The most I remember were these women dressed in beautiful gowns playing instruments. They reminded me of something out a fairytale. I spent the whole day playing in the trees with them." She laughs lightly and shakes her head while Arthur watches.

"I'm assuming that's where you found the inspiration for your outfit." He gestures towards the dress.

Gilda smiles again, instinctively reaching down to smooth it out.

"Oh, yes, I made it myself," she says. "Do you like it?"

Arthur would not pretend to have been an expert on women's fashion, then or especially now, but the feeling of nostalgia he feels helps him.

"I do. Quite fitting for the era." Not exactly the compliment he's used to giving when nobles asked about their clothing. An odd, familiar twist in his stomach. She gives him an appreciative look.

"Thank you," Gilda says. Her eyes drift off and towards the field. She leans closer, excitement in her grin. "It looks like they're starting."

Arthur scans the group until he finds Merlin, a grin on the warlock's features as he walks away from another challenger. A woman, Arthur notes absently before turning his focus back to Gilda. She's still watching intently, eyes locked on something.

"Are you here watching for someone?" he questions as the realisation dawns on him.

The shy expression confirms it. Gilda reaches up and tucks another dark, curling strand behind her ear.

"My partner," she tells him.

Romantic partner?

( _So that's what they are calling it now?_ )

Arthur follows the direction she motions to and spots a rather largely built man with rounded shoulders, greyish hair falling in his eyes. He can't help but wonder what sort of title _he_ could hold to get the affections of a woman like Gilda.

"Red hair, braided?" Gilda points out. "She's visiting from America. It's sort of our first outing together."

 _Oh_.

The only person out there even remotely fitting the description was the woman Merlin had been talking to; she stood off the other man's side, in position and testing out her stance.

It takes Arthur's mind only a little while to connect the pieces, but the shock of the open admittance seems unheard of. Merlin has mentioned that it was "legal" to marry the same sex now, so perhaps that makes it a more widely-spoken topic. Arthur already seems out of his element in the outside world, but _this_ at least is a more accepted topic.

When he glances over, Arthur can tell she's playing it off, but stares, as if expecting him to say something.

Instead he raises an eyebrow. " _America_? And where's that?"

Gilda laughs, relief flooding over her.

"My, you are in the spirit, aren't you?"

Arthur chuckles with her, deciding not to point out that he is quite _serious_.

"Are you here with someone?" she adds, beaming.

An incredibly loud noise pierces the air, causing him to jump. Gilda does as well, her expression growing irritated while Arthur remains tense.

What on earth was _that_?

Arthur's attention instantly falls on Merlin, but then, he groans. The other competitors are clearly pointing and tittering because out of all of them, the only one startled enough to accidentally _fire_ their arrow was _Merlin_. Arthur's sure he can see the red flush of embarrassment from here.

While Gilda mutters about 'bloody idiots and their air horns,' he turns his head to look at the group next to them. Young boys, barely with hair on their chins, huddling and laughing to themselves. One slips a canister in his trouser pocket as the others wave at him to do so quickly, their eyes shifty.

Arthur frowns, stepping back from the fence.

"You there!"

The boys' heads snap up, all looking at Arthur as he approaches. "What do you have there, you lot?" he demands, and the ex-king is smug about the way their faces drain of colour.

" _Nothin_ '," one bravely says with a glare, and Arthur can't help the blow of irritation he feels at being addressed in such a way.

"Right then, so you won't mind me looking, will you?"

That seems to do the trick, and they all take a step back as he takes one forward. Arthur darkens his look.

"If I catch you pulling it out again, I will personally hang you lot to the posts for the jousters to use for practice—have I made myself clear?"

They nod furiously, and Arthur smiles cheekily. "Good. On your way." And they do, scrambling. He heads back round to lean on the railing, only to see Gilda looking him over knowingly.

"… I'm assuming that one's yours, then."

They both gaze towards Merlin with his new arrow.

"He's a clumsy git. Someone's got to watch out for him," he mutters in confirmation, and Gilda only smiles more as they watch on.

*

Everything around him, his peripheral vision and the shuffling noises of the competitors remain tunneled, until Merlin's shoulder finishes its rotation, his arrow already embedded deep in his target.

Merlin's bow lowers to his side, weightless in his left hand.

The announcement of "10!" for his first arrow drags him back to immediate focus, ears dulling the roar and filling with the polite applause from the crowd of onlookers beyond the archery range.

His face betrays no specific emotion, pride or satisfaction, as the rest of the scores are written up, but Merlin swears (just for a moment) that he's mildly impressed with _himself_.

He wondered idly during correcting his own stances in the beginning… if he still could shoot accurately or as well as he did in his village's tournaments. It's been so long since Merlin has _touched_ a bow, let alone used one.

But the odds seem in his favour. The muscle memory and the mastering of a well-practiced skill lingers.

Even with the mishap of a stray arrow releasing from Merlin's fingers when being startled. At least no one is laughing at him anymore.

In fact, one or two narrow their eyes suspiciously at him. The teenage boy with lip piercings to Merlin's left, included.

There is _no_ way Merlin would have looked up after his mistake earlier, to scan the crowd for Arthur, to glimpse him convulsing with stifled laughter at Merlin's idiot move. To feel a million times worse than he already did.

But glimpsing up now, chancing it, he pinpoints Arthur standing by the fence without much effort. Arthur, shaking his head, not bothering to keep the traces of amazement from his contemplative frown. _Not_ laughing, not scoffing, and Merlin's chest loosens its tension a little.

*

Arthur's eyes dart towards the targets, having to take a moment to connect which was used by whom, because the moment he witnesses an arrow sticking out of the second middle ring, Arthur assumes he's looking at the wrong one.

"How did yours do?" Gilda says, sounding breathless.

"A 10… …?" Arthur replies in disbelief, the lingering smugness from before morphing into astonishment.

 _Merlin_ managed a 10-pointed arrow— _without_ magic.

"Yours?"

"10!" she repeats, and they both share a warm smile. "I _knew_ she was good."

"Can't say I shared the same faith. He can hardly walk without tripping over his own feet."

"Always full of surprises, these archers," Gilda teases, and Arthur shakes his head.

"You have no idea."

*

His free hand lifts in a small, acknowledging wave to Arthur.

It is… a strange notion, to say the least.

Even after being in the current time for a while. Having someone like Arthur watch someone like _Merlin_ compete in a tournament for once. It would never have happened in Camelot. Unlike the nobility, servants weren't permitted to showcase their talents or to earn glory from winning. Not that Merlin had ever sought those impressions.

It would be nice to win at something Merlin knows for certain he's good at. Without the aid of magic.

And, of course, seeing Arthur do the housework would be _priceless_.

He drops his hand and goes back to his original position, reading the cues from everyone else about nocking the next arrows handed to them, and squaring his shoulders.

" _Positions_!"

As the signal rings out, Merlin waits several moments to adjust the slant of his arm, before firing his arrow. The elbow jams out sideways and strikes Merlin's aiming arm. It happens so quickly, in the midst of bustling activity, that he wonders if any officials catch it. And it seems not.

"10!" comes the score for the teenage boy smirking at Merlin, lip with the silver ring curling up arrogantly.

Merlin's arrow, which wavered from its true path, impales the outer red ring on his target.

"8!"

Merlin shoots him a look somewhere between outright confusion and anger, but it goes right over the other competitor's head.

"Oops," he murmurs softly in Merlin's direction, "rotten luck there, mate. Guess you can't win them all."

Blue eyes are still wide on him, torn between glaring in a wordless herald of caution.

The aura radiating from the teenager, hostile and driven by conceit, along with the slimy, jealousy-hot quality of his words remind Merlin far too strongly of Arthur's uncle. With just a flip of Merlin's wrist, yellow eyes piercing bright, the boy could meet a _similar fate_ to Agravaine—

Merlin's insides cringe with nausea at the furious, dark thought, and shoves it far, far down, allowing it to sink away into nothingness.

Saying nothing in return (not because Merlin has nothing to say—oh _no_ , there is plenty—but because, unlike the little prick, Merlin is perfectly aware of the rules of the competition, namely: No conversation is to be made during its proceedings), Merlin listens for the next announcement. He calmly receives his final arrow.

Besides… there are other ways to get his meaning across without.

His mind blanks out on the consequences, or what the people observing would make of him, what _Arthur_ would. A hellish inferno surges around Merlin's belly, devouring what civility is left in him.

Merlin raises his longbow, squinting and aiming unconsciously for his bull's eye-target, along the patch of dying trees with the other targets. About 80 feet from where he stands.

But has no intention to release his arrow along that path.

"10!" rings out for the teenage boy.

An absurd amount of pride in his expression, and he rakes his fingers over his buzz-cut hair as the watching crowd cheers louder.

Merlin's arrow then flies, within the thirty-second window, completely missing his own target and striking the 10-point arrow, splintering it. Merlin's arrow embeds into the yellow ring on the boy's own target.

" _10_!"

He can barely hear his own heart pounding blood in his eardrums, from the crashing sound of bellowing from the onlookers. They scream and cheer at the top of their lungs like this is the most excitement they had ever experienced in their lives, blended with the clapping, and several boos and cries of disapproval and shock.

To quiet them down, the voice from the speakers announces, coldly, "Will competitors 'Leon Uhas' and 'Maurice Dredd' make their way into the official's tent behind them. At once."

*

Arthur admits to believing Merlin made the mistake of entering on false hope. He couldn't hunt, let alone hold a bow properly. Not in Arthur's time, anyway.

Then again, _had_ they ever tried longbow?

Arthur's mind races for a memory he isn't sure actually exists, one of Merlin using other forms of weapons.

But the selection was limited; despite hunting trips and the occasional battle, Merlin was a gatherer. The one behind the shield while the knights practiced. Arthur witnessed him get lucky multiple times, just barely land a blow (though now he questions whether it was luck or magic). He also seen Merlin wounded because of his utter incompetence, or his blinded focus. The reason Arthur gave him so much trouble was because it infuriated him to see Merlin act like such an easy target, even if it wasn't on purpose.

It _scared_ him.

Now it appears, Merlin _isn't_ such a miserable shot. If he had shown any capability of using a bow, perhaps Arthur would have worked with him, found a way so that Merlin wasn't constantly being worried about. A thought hits him: maybe this is _new_.

Maybe the Merlin he had known all those years ago, 1500 years according to him, knew nothing about archery.

This could have been a hobby built over time. He had to have done something with his time, learned to fend for himself even with his magic. For a moment Arthur mentally pulls away from the tournament in front of him with the dreading sensation that, Merlin could very well _be_ a different person than the one he knew.

He noticed differences of course, it's impossible not to, but Arthur is left with the surreal notion that he might be holding onto the familiarities more than he realises.

That heaviness settling in his chest reverts to a strong yank, his present frown more noticeable as he takes in the man across the archery field. A flash of sunny smile, a wave, and that was all Arthur needs to calm himself down. He's being _ridiculous_.

Still, nothing like this would have happened in Camelot. Nor any kingdom, for that matter.

Servants did not compete. Only royalty, or those of noble blood or of namesake. Knights were allowed, but that was as far as the list extended. That didn't stop others from competing at times though, most of which worked out in his favour. Arthur would have died much sooner if it wasn't for Gwaine entering.

Once Merlin gets into stance again, Arthur's posture dips, leaning forward more on the fence.

The air between he and Gilda easygoing, both interested in their companions at the moment. At least, Arthur says nothing until the second score announces.

It isn't the shot that enrages him; it's that from this angle, the sharp jab of the competitor's elbow is noticeable. Arthur already observes carefully, making sure Merlin isn't trying to pull any tricks (though, he highly suspects Merlin _wouldn't_ at this point). His brows draw together and he straightens, hands grasping the wood-railing tightly.

"You've got to be joking," Arthur says incredulously, his tone alarming Gilda.

"What?"

"The idiot knocked him with his elbow! If that had happened in Camelot, he would have been disqualified instantly with no chance of reentering—"

" _Camelot_?" Gilda cuts him off, eyebrows raising speculatively. Arthur waves a hand as he tries to calm down enough to backtrack.

"The… other faire I attended. They're strict on regulations." He clears his throat. Arthur gestures to the boy besides Merlin. "He did that on purpose. It was timed too perfectly otherwise."

"Surely one of the officials saw it," Gilda sympathises.

A terse sigh leaves Arthur as he looks for _someone_ to make it known. He wouldn't fight Merlin's battles, however.

The air around the crowd hushes, waiting to see who would pull ahead. Merlin is down two points that could be crucial depending on what he earns in this round. Blue eyes lock on Merlin out on the course, his breath still, then the arrows release. His gaze flickers towards Merlin's target, but when there's nothing there, he pauses. Has Merlin missed?

Gilda's overjoyed laughter next to him, and he feels a hand tap on his shoulder.

"Your man's a cheeky one, isn't he?" she yells over the roar of everyone else, and while Arthur agrees wholeheartedly, he finally realises what she's talking about.

The damned arrow had not gone through Merlin's target, but splintered the arrow in the opposer's target.

Arthur can't hold back a laugh.

Merlin's stunt isn't against the rules, at least not of their time—but causes troubles.

Gilda's eyes are on the group of others left at the range, and Arthur follows her gaze to the red-haired woman.

Her _partner_.

"Mine came close," she says to Arthur. "They might just compete again yet."

*

The nervous energy, humming and agitating his magic at his core along with his limbs, chases along the pace of his heartbeat as Merlin relinquishes his bow to one of the staff officials, with the pinch of humiliation in the exhibition of impulsiveness. Merlin isn't… sure why he let a damn _child_ get under his skin like that.

He knows Arthur's eyes bore into his profile, but not what emotion can be placed there. Like the coward he felt he was at times, all of Arthur's insults holding truth—Merlin avoids them, keeping his eyes humbly to the ground, chewing his lip. Even inside the orange glow of the sunlit tent and the event's representative sneering at him.

"… You both should be disqualified," she proclaims.

The teenage boy huffs out an irritated breath.

"Me? Why me?" Maurice says, grumbling. "' _He's_ the one who cheated."

Her following words sharp and venomous, shutting him up. "I don't believe it was so much _cheating_ , as it seemed that Mr. Uhas here was attempting to put you in your place for your little display with striking him at the second round, which did not go _unnoticed_."

"And _you_ ," the representative scowls at Merlin keeping his arms locked behind him submissively, face tilted down, "should have reported what happened to a staff member instead of playing dirty."

"It was wrong of me," Merlin admits, fringe hanging over his eyes. "I'm sorry."

"If you were _sorry_ , you wouldn't have done it." The way the representative chastises them brings back a faint memory of a stern Gaius, when he had been very, _very_ stern. Uther-level of stern. "You both are matched at 28 points. The highest scores."

A deliberate pause of silence, in which another staff member whispers in her ear. A resigning sort of sigh.

"There will be a tie-breaker," she informs them. "You will go at separate turns, to ensure there is no more foul play."

Merlin nods, not speaking or looking up . He exits the tent, closely escorted by a heavier-set staff member grasping his longbow.

In the distance, Charlie stands along with the other archers, mouthing "what the hell, dude" with visible concern. He sends her a barely-there shrug, pressing his lips together and waiting for his instructions.

"Attention! The highest scoring competitors are being allowed a chance to break a tie. All other competitors, please clear the range."

They mill out of view, some muttering, others watching on curiously.

"The highest score is currently at 28 points," comes the event representative's voice from the tent-speakers. "Whomever receives the highest point on the single round will receive the winning title. Competitor 'Maurice Dredd' shall be the first to go, on my signal."

The Dredd boy doesn't even necessarily need to contemplate physically thwarting Merlin's chances. It's clear… he is well-skilled on his own.

"10!"

The arrow sways gently at its impact into the outer yellow ring.

Frustration wrinkles seconds-long over Dredd's face before he walks away from the shooting area. Merlin takes his place, longbow returned to him and an arrow that he nocked. All hollow, thoughtless rhythms of living blood and tendons in him.

Like this all is second-nature.

Doesn't feel _right_ somehow, if he does win for himself. For a wager. For satisfy a passing idea of revenge. What honour can there be in that?

But… hadn't he thrown enough away? For Will in the fear of losing a friend? What can Merlin lose _now_ for winning? Would… he lose Arthur's respect? That nagging sensation overcomes him; foolish, yes—but Merlin can't stomp it down. No matter how hard he tries.

His arm pulls back instinctively. Merlin's eyelids droop shut.

_"You have always done what you've thought to be right, my boy." His mother held his face, with loving, callus-worn hands, her dark blue eyes smiling. Her warm kiss to his forehead. "But there is no shame in wanting something for yourself. That is what makes you **human** , Merlin."_

His exhale shakes between his lips. Merlin lets his arrow go, eyes opening glassy with the uncomfortable prickling of tears.

Merlin's arrow sinks, dead-center into the inner yellow ring.

"10X!"

An explosion of sound from the crowd, no one person easily distinguishable amongst the blaring roar.

" _Your champion_ — Leon Uhas!"

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note(s): Okay so, the rules in this competitive target archery follow Standard FITA, which in most parts of UK you would find the scoring to be more under GNAS rules, where they have score values 1, 3, 5, 7 and 9. But in this case, we're going a typical FITA scoring (World Archery Federation, abbreviated WA and formerly FITA - Fédération Internationale de Tir à l'Arc). Just so no one is confused! 
> 
> Also, you get cookies for catching the OTHER television characters in this here chapter. (Okay well, this is like me telling you anyway. I never intended it originally but, Charlie had to be in this... she deserves a second chance to be amazing. (Especially after [the treatment she got](http://badwolfkaily.tumblr.com/post/124876736795/themegalosaurus-well-this-was-awkward) in her last series.) Her and Gilda are gonna make the occasion appearance for a while! Merlin and Arthur need some more friends before the rest of the Camelot gang shows up. LGBTQA+ friends... because we all flock together for warmth in a cold heteronormative society, right? NODS.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH GOSH. You guys gotta check out [this gifset](http://ofkingsandlionhearts.tumblr.com/post/125943415976/merlin-reincarnation-au-the-catalyst-by) for "The Catalyst" done by [ofkingsandlionhearts](http://ofkingsandlionhearts.tumblr.com/). AAAAHHHHH. A BIG KISS FOR YOU, KIT. THIS COMPLETELY BLEW ME AWAY. OF COURSE I WAS GONNA SHARE IT HERE.
> 
> I'd like to thank my newest beta [veritably_mad](http://archiveofourown.org/users/veritably_mad/pseuds/veritably_mad/) for helping me out last minute and everyone who has supported me so far. As well as my Britpick [ememmyem](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ememmyem/pseuds/ememmyem) who saved my neck. I'm gonna say it over and over, but half of this fic wouldn't exist without [marlena_darling](http://archiveofourown.org/users/marlena_darling/pseuds/marlena_darling). She was a heavy influence for Arthur and helped me shape him in this fic when the writing began, (along with her research on sword-fighting and her encouragement), and us collabing—this would not have came to life without her. And I'm so grateful and honored to be piecing our ideas together and sharing this with all of you lovelies. ♥♥

 

*

"Your champion! _Leon Uhas_!"

Arthur reacts in time with the crowd.

He grins so wide it hurts, his hands in the air to clap as he hollers along with the visitors around him. Another loud cheer helps him snap back and realise what he's doing. Gilda claps along.

For some odd reason, the overjoyed look she aims to him makes Arthur to duck his head, his grin still there but attempting to control it. She isn't _judging_ , but Arthur should know how to compose himself better. Still, he claps until Gilda tugs on the sleeve of his tunic and tilts her head.

"Come on, we can meet them by the exit."

*

The onslaught of rushing emotions impact him all so quickly, tremoring in every filament of his person. Astonishment, dread, incredulity, joy, and perplexity. Until 'champion' had been announced, along with his 'name'.

Merlin finds himself grinning stupidly large, the corners of his mouth straining with ache. Dazedly follows the path where a staff member walks him back towards the officials tent. Hands him a laminated slip of paper and nods briskly, murmuring to him with a bright expression. But Merlin's focus slips away from the words.

The hairs on the back of his neck, underneath his neckerchief, bristle.

A new voice, perhaps a few years younger than the event representative, chirps out from the tent-speakers, "Congratulations to this year's archery champion! And thank you all for attending the match! Be sure to return next year for a brand new opportunity to compete! Long live Albion!"

A swimmy, hazy feeling vacuuming out the cheering and instead replacing it with a growing, noisy ringing in Merlin's ears. The next breath in robs him of the sensation of his own physical weight, making him feel lighter, spinning slowly in place on his two feet.

Only when a hand clamps to his shoulder does Merlin jolt, ears cleared, breathing noticeably heavier. As if he has been sprinting. Merlin's fingernails bite mercilessly into the skin of his palms.

He jerks his head around to a familiar face, a familiar plait of red hair.

"Charlie?"

Her hand does not linger after patting down, but she eyes him questioningly. He should have appeared _happier_. If he could have glanced into a mirror, Merlin would have witnessed it for himself—tightness around his eyes, sweat on his brow, how pale he seemed.

"You doin' alright there, champ?" she asks, frowning. "You looked freaked for a minute. Tell me you're not gonna pass out, okay. No offense, but I'm not that good at CPR…"

"S'nothing," he mumbles, scrubbing at his forehead with a tunic sleeve, nostrils flaring.

 _What_ is…?

Someone to their right clears their throat. Merlin blinks and gazes over Dredd, shifting restlessly in place, and scratching absently at one of his lip piercings. "

"Um… it was a good match," he says, low. Icy eyes meeting Merlin's blue. "And… sorry about earlier."

"Damn straight you are, asshole," Charlie whispers, narrowing her stare.

Surprisingly unaffronted by that contemptuous remark, the teenage boy chooses to ignore her and presents his hand for Merlin. Pausing a couple seconds, observing the smaller, olive-toned hand, the warlock reaches out, forgoing the handshake and tightening his fingers to the boy's lower arm, squeezing amiably with a mild, close-lipped smile.

"I'm looking forward to competing again against you."

Dredd chuckles, smile returned, as well as the faint squeeze.

"Same here," he answers.

The trio begins to dissipate as the rest of the archers head for the range's exit. Merlin loses sight of Charlie, either in the waiting crowd or in the line of competitors filing out behind him, and nods to a couple faire-goes who wave enthusiastically at him. Must have been watching. He nearly forgets about the slip of paper in his hand.

Merlin's eyes cast down on the laminated print and he nearly lets out a disbelieving laugh. A gift certificate to one of the local restaurants.

 _Honour_ and glory, eh?

Before he makes it out into the crowd to search for Arthur, Merlin is handed a complimentary tote-bag and is about to shove the certificate into it when he hears Charlie yell out gleefully, barreling past him.

A girl in a long, billowing white dress giggles and flails her hands in excitement as Merlin's new friend throws her arms around her, both girls embracing.

The dark-haired girl squeals out Charlie's name, eyes wide as a manically-grinning Charlie quite literally _sweeps_ her up into her arms, cradling her bridal-style. The look of awed, uncomplicated bliss on their features radiates, like gentle sunlight, when they kiss.

It must be… very nice to share in something like that.

Nearby, Arthur crosses his arms and pulls his eyes from the same view Merlin shares. Something at the base of Merlin's throat warms pleasantly.

*

The pair wait for the small crowd behind the field to disperse enough for Arthur and his new friend to get through, heading towards the exit. Arthur wants to keep Merlin in sight.

While doing so, a thought occurs him through the commotion: he lost the bet.

Arthur might have cursed out loud if there hadn't been a woman present.

Merlin is going to gloat about this for all it's worth, he's sure. Despite that, Arthur feels a strong swell of pride. Not only had Merlin proven him wrong, _and_ won, but he had done so on his own accord.

Arthur had been watching, waiting for a glisten of gold like the sun itself, but not once did he catch it or see Merlin move his mouth. There are plenty of opportunities he could have used magic, especially in response to the foul play, but he hadn't. That was an aspect of the old Merlin that Arthur knew well: integrity.

The weaving in-between people grows easier once they move away, and Arthur soon falls into step beside Gilda. Her pace hurried while still holding an air of elegance, her lips pulled as if trying to contain a larger smile. Arthur's long strides make it easy to keep up.

"Your partner," Arthur begins, and Gilda stares as if suddenly startled at the mention. "What is her name?"

That lighthearted spark returns to her gaze, brown eyes seeming much brighter as she smiles softly.

"Charlie," she says. "Or at least, that's what she goes by now."

Arthur doesn't question it. He does wonder what sort of name Charlie is for a girl, as Arthur finds himself now used to people not using their real names.

"What's yours—?"

A sight of red hair flying towards them, and by the time Arthur catches on, Gilda is already in the air, the two women spinning around.

He watches on as they talk quietly and give another kiss, eyebrows raising faintly at the sight. Arthur doesn't realize he's crossed his arms until he feels the tight pressure against his chest.

They are _happy_ , incredibly so.

Merlin stares at him, and for a moment his heart jumps. Arthur smiles as he strides forward, a hand soundly clasping Merlin's shoulder.

"It appears I wrongly doubted you, Merlin. You're not completely useless after all."

That feeling drifts on, instead of lifting away, moving from the hidden pocket in Merlin's throat to his ribcage, _blossoming_ that low heat when Arthur's expression heartens into an quick, excited grin.

He forgets all else around him, just for those few minutes where Arthur's palm presses down, and large, strong fingers grip over his brown jacket. Merlin returns the gladsome smile, not shaking away the hand from his shoulder.

"I think it's fair to say I have my moments," he says, bright-eyed rather than solemn. Or cynical.

Too many times in his past, after-Arthur, Merlin felt on his guard about his emotions and reactions, or _hollow_ of any deserving thoughts. That perhaps he _could_ for once expose himself to a good feeling. Arthur… is helping him discover that, Merlin considers to himself. God above, he's not allowed to know he is the cause. Arthur's ego doesn't need the stroking.

Arthur allows himself to keep his grip on Merlin longer than normal seeing as the other man hardly appears to mind. The blond man could still feel the corner of his lips beginning to strain, but Arthur is too distracted by the _brightness_ in Merlin's eyes. The delight there.

"Perhaps," he says, dismissively.

Merlin gestures for Arthur to lean in towards him, pulling on a seemingly _deliberate_ , pseudo-concerned look.

"Not to alarm you in any way," he drops his voice to a whisper. "But… I could have sworn that you may have been enjoying yourself at a _peasant's_ competition."

He bites his lips in, raking his eyes over his friend when a curious " _Merlin_?" is spoken, momentarily startling him.

The dark-haired girl in the white dress swivels her head at him and Arthur, Charlie's arm snug around her thin waist. Merlin collects himself, lessening the wideness in his eyes.

"Inside joke from the university club," he says aloud, coolly, the mental clog set in place for false gaiety to unwind. "He's Arthur, I'm Merlin. Long story."

Merlin presents his hand politely for her to take, reassured in her gentle, harmonious laughter.

"But everyone else just calls me Leon. But I _have_ been mistaken for a Colin when I don't shave." Charlie snickers loudly into the back of her hand. "I don't believe we've met?"

Arthur side-eyes him, blue eyes critical as he half-listens.

 _Colin?_ What sort of git name was that?

"No, we haven't. I'm Gilda," she says, shaking Merlin's hand lightly. "I saw you talking to Charlie earlier. You have a wicked shot."

"You should have seen it up close, babe," Charlie adds, letting Gilda go and stepping forward to punch Merlin's arm playfully. She flashes him a grinning wink. "Nut up or shut up, and _dude_ … you totally showed everyone just how much balls you've got. I mean, that little shit's face was _hysterical_. His jaw must have hit his kneecaps."

Merlin let out a embarrassed, but genuine laugh, features relaxing.

"Nice to meet you." He nods to Gilda, who nods her head back and beams. "Um, Charlie, this is… Arthur."

Arthur's lips curl in amusement as Charlie punches Merlin's shoulder, but his eyes widen a fraction at the language she uses. Never in his life has he heard such vulgarity from a _woman_ , not even from Morgana (who, in her youth, managed to convince most of the kingdom into believing she was a saint reborn, but she let that facade slip in front of him a few times, in their early days).

He only shifts in place and looks back towards Merlin.

Arthur met plenty of strong women in his time. That is nothing he isn't used to, and he has always admired women who stood for what they believed and did not allow others to trample them. He has also seen many who could fight and use weapons better than any man, and they were held in high regard to him. Always had. There is a reason he was attracted to Guinevere, besides her caring heart and beauty.

Yet, _bold_ is different from _crass_ , and Charlie certainly feels like she's throwing him in a loop. She speaks with a mouth he had only heard from his men, and with her otherwise dainty appearance, it's almost unbelievable.

Lucky for him, Arthur excels thinking on his feet. Once over the initial shock, it feels…not that dissimilar. Like she's a smaller and less obnoxious Gwaine.

And it's a bit hilarious to Merlin, seeing Arthur's well-bred and old-fashion upbringing clash with Charlie's free-spirited and "unladylike" behavior.

His lips perk, and he restrains himself from nudging the other man with a degree of fondness.

"It's a pleasure, Charlie." Arthur greets her, "You're quite skilled as well."

"Natural talent," Gilda adds, smiling. "Good with her hands."

After a moment she flushes, her little fingers tangling in front of her. "She's a computer hacker, I mean. Good with typing."

At the double entendre, Charlie says, with an almost too-chipper tone and in a completely straightforward manner, "And with sex." She takes a light slap to her wrist with devilish glee. " _What_? You basically said it."

"I did _no_ such thing," Gilda chides her, good-nature in her scowl and her fingers separating as her hands plant on her hips.

"Maybe it was wishful thinking."

As the witty repertoire continues, Merlin seeks the distant reminder in Charlie's haughty, mischievous smiles and her open-minded nature. Not for a second holding back in fear of what others would think, and possibly not caring.

"So, uh, Leon," Merlin's eyes blinks, blue meeting green as Charlie directs his attention by glancing furtively between him and Arthur, "is this your 'mate' you were talking about earlier in the tent?" He picks up on her coyness, this time pinning her stare on Arthur. " _You_ any good with your hands, hmm?"

Whether or not Arthur answers, Merlin may have blocked it out with recalling the memory of what she had heard, and being torn between groaning to himself and bursting out laughing with similar devilish glee.

He has no idea what _possesses_ him to continue this on, but Merlin's face lights up with a deepening smirk twitching in its visible mirth.

"Arthur isn't terrible at swordplay," he says, a line barely above 'composed.'

Charlie's own face barely holding it together.

"Oh," she says, breathy, corners of her lipstick-red mouth straining down, fighting down the urge to leer further.

"He's rather good. I've had the pleasure of watching on occasion." Merlin's shoulders trembles with the suppressed laughter. He chokes back a little of it slipping free by coughing noticeably into a fist.

"Oh, I'll bet. With that _armsgah_ , you must really get an eyeful. On _occasion_."

Gilda rolls her eyes with a close-lipped smile, surprising everyone by then lolling out her tongue in long-suffering impatience. This time, she grabs onto Charlie's wrist, holding it to her side and shakes her head. The darker-haired woman presses a kiss to Charlie's pale cheek.

"My sweet, loudmouth American," she sighs. "I can't bring you anywhere out in public, it seems."

"Sooo we're gonna talk about my mouth now, too?"

Gilda huffs, smile peaking and hardly thinning away.

" _Stop_ it."

She turns to Arthur, apologetically. "Arthur, I'd love to hear about your swordsmanship. Do you compete?"

There is something going on that he doesn't understand, but at the same time Arthur imagines they aren't really discussing sword-fighting. He gives Merlin a look of concealed irritation, the ' _what are you doing?_ ' obvious, but it goes ignored.

"I do. I have since I was young." he answers, tipping his chin up faintly.

"Are you competing today?"

"I am," Arthur confirms, and Gilda's gaze turns mildly concerned.

"Isn't that starting soon?"

In honesty, Arthur hasn't thought of it since they reached the archery range, but now he looks up. The sun is high, signaling close to noon, and he glances at Merlin. "I suppose so."

"We'll stop by and hopefully catch a match of yours," Gilda tells him, before leaning closer to Charlie. "We were going to look around, but I'm sure we'll make it."

*

At the mention of 'competing,' Merlin's eyes flick down for his left wrist as he shoves his tunic and jacket sleeve up, just as Arthur's eyes went skywards.

Damn. They still had to get halfway across the faire.

"He does, and he's going to be late," Merlin says, grimacing apologetically. "We have to run."

Charlie then reaches out with a hand to Arthur. Merlin's eyes dart between them.

"We heard rumors that they're bringing the heat this year for the championship tournament," she says, glancing seriously up at him.

"Fierce competition is always preferred," Arthur says. "But thank you."

"Best of luck, dude."

She slaps Arthur's open palm, unmistakably confusing him when Arthur probably thought she was going for the modern handshake, and taps her pale knuckles firmly against Arthur's.

The flabbergasted look minute-long passing over Arthur's expression has Merlin containing an amused snort towards the ground. With genuine enthusiasm, he takes the quick, warm hug from Gilda and another friendly punch in the arm from a grinning Charlie.

As Gilda hugs Arthur, their backs to the other pair of the group, Charlie's grin splits as she curls a fist in her left hand and then the forefinger in her right, gesturing obscenely between them. Then jerking her thumb to Arthur's direction with an eyebrow raise.

Merlin sends her a wordless, glaring look, lips twisting to a sudden smile starting to creep over him. He subtly flips his first two fingers to her in a similar obscene gesture.

Looking undeterred, Charlie merely flashes a V-sign with her hand, mouthing ' _loser_ ' with pseudo-disappointment and heads back to her girlfriend holding out an arm for her.

"Peace out, bitches!" the redhead crows out, sliding her forearm gleefully round Gilda when they step away to disappear into the crowd of faire-goers.

Merlin shakes his head a little, catching Arthur's eye and tilting his head in a silent ' _let's go_ ' before stepping in beat with the blond man.

About a good yard from their destination, Merlin shoulders his lightweight tote before noticing the laminated slip of paper still in his hand. He rereads the gift certificate.

"So," Merlin announces, "I hope you're hungry later for, uhm, 'Italian'. That'll be a new experience for you." He smacks the end of the certificate against the palm of his other hand, laughing nervously but not looking anywhere particular. "Other than… everything else that's been going on that's been a new experience for you."

"I'm sure," Arthur says dryly, then reached around to place a hand on the back of Merlin's neck. "I believe we should worry about getting there on time first."

The outright withering look, with lightly colored eyebrows slanting upwards as Merlin gabbers on some more, did halt the gab, eventually.

It may have in part influenced by the seemingly (at first) gentle motion from the other man. Arthur's fingertips lifting, poking around the ragged, greyish-blue scarf and grazing up Merlin's neck. Merlin's conscious thoughts don't know how to process the tickling sensation along with the sardonic nature of Arthur's spoken words together, leaving Merlin's bony shoulders to stiffen up and Merlin's lips to soundlessly separate.

The moment, stretching out longer than it must have, ends. Merlin's scruffed, brown jacket-collar strains roughly forward in Arthur's grip, dragging Merlin's heels off the ground briefly.

"Wha—?—!" tumbles out of him, low and confused, body struggling for control and his own weight.

Merlin shoots Arthur a nasty look, brows pinching.

"Arthur, _seriously_ —"

How long has it been since someone _dared_ to manhandle him in such a way? The greatest and most powerful warlock this world has ever known in its existence? And well, of course during the era of Camelot, Arthur had no such suspicions of that kind…

Arthur had felt it necessary, whenever the fancy struck him, to haul Merlin around like his servant were only a flailing sack of potatoes, picking him up and slinging him over his shoulder, or shoving him around (it's _horseplay_ , or so the clotpole tried reasoning), or tossing Merlin onto the ground after a good spat or giving Merlin a noogie in a headlock.

By the gods, Merlin _hated_ that. So much.

When a muscle-thick arm noosed the very air out of Merlin's throat and accompanied it by the awful contact-burn of knuckles rubbing furiously on his scalp. _Play_ , his arse.

But a lot of Arthur's physical gruffness towards the people he knew inclined to ill-conveyed affection, though platonic, or to put them out of harm's way.

One of the clearest memories of this, as much as Merlin could dig up at will, was Agravaine's men finding them with Tristan and Isolde. Arthur heard the arrow before anyone, even before seeing it, and yanked Merlin by his tunic, throwing him off-balance as an crossbow arrow embedded in the tree, right above Arthur's shoulder.

This time it's Arthur's _impatience_ coming into it and Merlin went passive for now, not without muttering under his breath.

The manhandling does not last, thankfully.

They reach the initial sign-up table as a few competitors vanish into the tent. The staff member from earlier in the day, with the terrible Elizabethan dialect and checkered tunic, motions to the changing tent inside the tournament arena.

"Aye, you have returned for the task of becoming champion! Just before high noon, very good," he boasts, but once they are closer he lowers his voice. "Go along in there, they'll find some armour that should fit and give you a sword. Try not to weigh yourself down too much."

At the 'weight' remark, Merlin says deadpan, looking off to the side, " _Fat chance with a head like his_."

He turns back to Arthur, flashing an innocent smile at the frown.

The innocent smile deepens into a larger, satisfied one. He comes around Arthur's shoulder, trilling, "Try to not get distracted by all of the excitement you must be _feeling_ about experiencing menial labor for the next few weeks."

"I'll try to contain myself," Arthur drawls back, without looking up, sarcasm obvious.

The checker-tunic man shows him a slip of parchment.

"I need ye to sign your name to show that ye are here, and pick a crest to represent ye on the bracket. Just put yer initials by it."

Arthur hoists up the fake quill and marks down his name, replacing Pendragon with Du Bois mentally, but his eyes linger longer on the emblems.

They are terribly constructed, less descriptive than he's accustomed to seeing. Some hold traces of possible families that existed. There is one that Arthur's eyes linger on.

He marks an ' _AD_ ' next to an available, red shield, a black dragon rearing up on its hind legs in the center. It isn't quite his, not really, but close enough.

Finally, Arthur's within the tented area, gathering his equipment.

The under-armour consists mainly of a light mail, and a pauldron and gardebrace. _Training_ armour.

Arthur almost scoffs, but a look around him is enough to show that for now, perhaps it's no more than necessary. His competition hustle around him, strapping on their own, and some testing the weight of their swords. Arthur goes over to the rack, listening to the speech given by one of the officials about regulations and safety.

There are already elements he understands: this would be a gentle offense only, no severe blows to the body. Professional combat. That is how Arthur works anyways, especially in competitions.

Honour was a factor he did not take lightly.

When it's his turn to look through the swords, Arthur lifts one off the rack, instantly appreciating the fact it feels _real_ unlike the ones in the costume shoppe. But it's not the one with the right balance, and Arthur examines one more and deems it the best. Even so, he finds himself longing for a sword like Excalibur. It had been _perfect_. (Even if _magic_ created it.)

Arthur waits through a couple rounds, listening to the voice over the speakers introduce the men that had left the tent minutes before. The clash of swords, the sound muffled and far in-between, but finally he's urged forward.

"Good luck," an official tells him cheerfully, clapping him on his back, pushing Arthur outside.

Another younger man stands across from Arthur on the field, the shield a bit too large dangling from his arm and a heavy-looking sword in the other. Arthur could have point out a _handful_ of things done wrong that would have gotten his opponent killed in battle.

He nods in acknowledgment and respect, and the other man does the same before sliding the cover of his helmet down.

" _Begin_!"

Instead of moving first, Arthur stays where he is, as his opponent charged. He ticks his eyebrows up in plain skepticism.

At the very last moment, Arthur raises his sword, clashing his weight, and their swords form a trembling cross. The rest of his mind shuts off as Arthur steps forward, causing the man's already wobbly stance to break.

His opponent comes down on a knee as he withdraws, but by then Arthur pulls to the side and strikes the hilt on the man's shoulder. With a swift twirl, Arthur poses his sword in front of him. The other man cries out shocked, tripping backwards in attempt to steady himself on his feet, and Arthur takes advantage to hold the sword just above his chest.

A bell clangs from behind them, and the voice calls out, " _Match!_ The winner is Arthur Du Bois!"

Arthur lowers his sword, and he extends a hand to the man on the ground.

"Pleasure."

"You're brilliant, mate. More skill than I've got." The other man prattles, sheepish, taking Arthur's hand without hesitation. He pulls up his helmet with his free hand, revealing a smile on his features. "Eli Yan. Cheers."

Arthur smiles politely before backing up, both going to their respective tents.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the red dragon-crest move higher on the bracket. Oh yes, this is going be easy.

*


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WE ARE BAAAAAAACK. I finished up some IRL business and posted my [Merlin Reverse Big Bang fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4626468) (which omg if you haven't read or seen the art - go go go yes go see). It was a thrill ride and I'm so glad I got to participate. All that aside, I'm so so so happy to get into THE NEW BIG PLOT HERE NOW. YOU'RE GONNA LOVE IT. HOPE YOU ARE EXCITED. ♥ ♥ ILY GUYS SO MUCHHH.
> 
> I'd like to thank my newest beta [veritably_mad](http://archiveofourown.org/users/veritably_mad/pseuds/veritably_mad/) for helping me out last minute and everyone who has supported me so far. As well as my Britpick [ememmyem](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ememmyem/pseuds/ememmyem) who saved my neck. Half of this fic wouldn't exist without [marlena_darling](http://archiveofourown.org/users/marlena_darling/pseuds/marlena_darling) and I wanna say thank you for taking this journey with me and you've been a best friend to me. I love you lots and this is ours.

*

A slow prickle crawls where Arthur's fingers brushed minutes ago, along the length of the nape of his neck (even past where the touch had gone) and Merlin rubs at it absently.

He only gets a millisecond or two due of a proper glance at the slip of paper Arthur signed, along with what he boxed off for a crest representation—but Merlin figures he would discover it what it is as the matches go on. It can't be that hard, can it?

Arthur would fiercely deny it if it was brought up later, but he storms towards the tent. Merlin allows him the 'not-a-fit-don't-be-stupid-Merlin' moment, as his inner-Arthur's voice points out, letting out a long, weary sigh and heading for the outer borders of the fence.

Already, a few of the competitors line up for their turns outside the center. Merlin's eyes scan over them vigilantly. They hardly look fit, some shuffling in place anxiously, others more stoic.

One or two look confident enough to present a suitable challenge, and Merlin silently wishes them some semblance of fortune from the Old Religion. They are going to need it against someone like Arthur.

… … maybe it isn't a good idea after all…

Merlin grinds his teeth a little behind his lips, sympathetic, and waits for Arthur to show. He chooses a more secluded place at the surrounding arena-fence, bare hands on the wood barring.

As the over-enthused faire-goers try to get as close as possible, packing together with hardly any space between them and chattering amongst themselves, he decides to keep to the fringes, quiet and observant.

It's a cracking view, he supposes. And this remains true in that assumption as Arthur marches out, bending his knees and raising his sword (a real sword?—blimey) into a neutral position before the start.

The boy with smaller, twitchier limbs, Arthur's first competitor, makes a grave mistake in not assessing his opponent from the very beginning. Merlin slaps an open hand to his face when Arthur takes him down in about thirty seconds flat, nearly blushing with the secondhand embarrassment he feels radiating from around him.

" _Match! The winner is Arthur du Bois!_ "

He wonders vaguely how Arthur is going to react to such a weak display, fingers wiping his eyelids, and is pleasantly surprised to see him helping the other boy onto his feet and flash a polite smile.

The second match was not been very memorable either. Another boy, a bit more rounder, made the similar mistake of charging head on. And it took even less time for Arthur to claim victory in that battle. (Was it even a victory if the other person was a completely unskilled dolt?)

During that time, Merlin vanishes to find the closest food vender, paying for two bottles of water and tucking them away into his new bag.

As the third round commences, Merlin forgets about watching for the assigned crest, far too drawn now in the appearance of Arthur's next opponent. A thin, freckled girl with a square jaw and bottle green eyes charged with the definite meaning of familiarity in arse-kicking.

He thought he heard the name 'Mora Gorgas' for her, but her name isn't her specialty.

What seems to be her counter-strikes and parries. Arthur alters his stance but is successful in dodges and blocks. She has light feet and agility on her side, while Arthur has cunning and the power behind his blows. So when he lands the next set, the girl falls over onto her side, sword flying away.

Arthur kneels to aid her up, and she rejects his hand, sneering.

Merlin's lips press together in brooding consideration as the freckled girl sulks away, leaving a staff member to fetch the abandoned weapon, and as Arthur's 'name' is once again announced from the speakers.

The gathering crowd claps on, still with the flat, expected courtesy despite their wind-cold, smiling faces, and Merlin echoes it, leaning with his elbows on the oak-wood fence. An announcement floats into hearing about a fifteen minute suspension of the tournament.

A groan or two sounds. The competitors scatter, for the tents or for their families in the crowd. Arthur's eyes glimpses in all directions before honing on him.

"It looks like you've hardly broken a sweat," Merlin says casually, not straightening up from his relaxed lean even as his armoured king peers down at him.

They are blocked waist-down by the presence of the arena-fence. Merlin's observation is somewhat true: only a light sheen built on Arthur's forehead, though he breathes harshly and his cheeks sting pink from the weather and physical exertion.

"I haven't had a chance for more," Arthur argues, rolling his shoulders.

He attempts to get his muscles loose as he rolls his shoulders, attempting to keep himself relaxed and get used to the armour that doesn't quite fit.

The corner of Merlin's mouth smirks, as he levels his gaze with the other man.

"Was it necessary to strike left horizontally? When she had her backwards strike?"

Arthur stops lightly stretching his arms.

Merlin adds, perceptively, "It seemed with your height advantage, you could have overpowered her by thrusting diagonally and and countering it by keeping your distance." The warlock then reaches down for his candy red, tarp-fabric bag by his right foot, pulling out an unopened water bottle and handing it off to Arthur. "It was smart to get her parrying to the side, and leaving her vulnerable to tighter hits."

"I didn't want to overpower. I was attempting to exert her energy first, because of the swings she made." His eyes never leave Merlin, Arthur with a studious expression he sometimes revealed when Merlin did something unexpected.

Merlin says insolently, bunching his scarf in his fingers, "But what would I _know_ about it? I was just a serving boy."

*

"You learned all that from watching?" Asking a simple 'how' is too obvious; Arthur knows where Merlin learned it. While he might be hopeless on his own wielding against someone of Arthur or his knights' caliber, he has attended many practices. And tournaments.

He never realised Merlin paid so close attention.

"I might almost be impressed."

He turns when Arthur hears a crackle in the air, and then, "Round four will begin with Du Bois versus Black. All other competitors, please return to the tents."

Arthur's eyes roam over Merlin's pale hand tangled with blue scarf, and for a moment, he wants to ask him for it. Arthur straightens up, deciding against it.

"Perhaps this one shall actually be a challenge," he says, thoughtfully.

But he wishes he didn't have to be so gentle.

Arthur wants a true fight, one that would let the doubts and the buried anger inside to channel through, but so far none hold to that.

Only about a minute into the fourth round, Arthur realises his wishful thinking has been granted. Tristan Black, as it says on the roster, is one of the other contestants he kept his eye on throughout the tourney. Not many skilled in the art of footwork along with the accompanying techniques, but Black has shown signs of prior training. Experience. And of course, Arthur is full of anticipation.

By now, they have been going for a few minutes past the initial first rounds, and Arthur can see the other man's endurance refuses to dwindle. He grunts as the flat of their swords collide, reverberating through his fingers.

Both men started carefully, circling for weak points before Black lunged. Unlike the others, he struck fast and ducked out, only allowing Arthur to block instead of attacking.

Timing is key, and while the other is fast, he's predictable.

Arthur's lungs burn as he constantly evades the other sword and rushes to knock him down, the clink of swords echoing in the air. His focus is in the match because he knows his time was coming, _almost_ —

A bigger, harder shoulder forces itself into the junction of Arthur's own, his footing slipping on the mossy grass.

Arthur raises his sword just in time to parry the blow intending to knock him down. Their swords locked briefly enough to catch Black off-guard, and Arthur seizes his chance.

Sliding it back, he tugs closer to himself, then thrusts his sword at the same time as a foot slides forward, catching in between Black's own. The man is down before he can draw an inhale, and Arthur has the tip pointed towards his chest.

" _Du Bois continues!_ "

Arthur lets out a huffing breath, posture limping. Unlike his last opponent, the other man nods dutifully and goes on his way.

Before he disappears into the tent, Arthur searches out Merlin, but his gaze drifts instead to a woman staring him in the eye. The one from the entrance of the faire, he realises. She smiles, almost coquettishly, and he gives her a weaker smile.

*

The late autumn wind, along with the atmospheric, clinging scent of rain as hours go on, must have been getting to him.

He shudders bodily. The skin covered up on Merlin's arms and on the back of his neck returns to a similar, lucid crawl of a prickling from earlier. Though not quite as pleasing of a sensation when following the after-warmth of Arthur's cradling fingers.

That must have been it. _Must have_ , insists Merlin stubbornly in his own thoughts. (Very rarely did he feel the penetrating quality of a mortal chill. Very rare.)

Merlin tries to distract the slow-building misdoubt by focusing back on the tournament itself: the whole reason he's here in the first place. The fiercer competitors, ones who may have rivaled lesser-skilled knights of Camelot, grouped away from Arthur's matches.

Which seem to be a damn near shame. The fact that Arthur has to compete against those who are entirely less proficient in their swordsmanship. Then again… it's difficult to rival the man who had been known as the 'greatest swordsman in the Five Kingdoms'.

Frustration ripples visibly, at least to him, from Arthur's movements, from the rolling of his broad shoulders and in his scrunched expression. Arthur wants a challenge. A proper and suitable one to his standards. And Merlin doesn't know if there is. But he sort of hopes.

As Merlin explained bland criticism about Arthur's fighting, the blond man's expression grew meditative on what had been spoken.

But not distracted enough to ignore his water bottle given, which disappointed the warlock only slightly (and privately) to see that Arthur figured it out without the typical gripe.

_You learned all that from watching?_

"Not here I didn't," Merlin replies, shrugging vacantly a moment. It should have been obvious, he thinks. "After being forced into attending as your ' _training_ partner'," the syllables pass Merlin's lips like they are burdened with aggravating memories, but also letting a half-smile slip out, "for nearly ten years, the terms got stuck in my brain. Well, what was left of it rattling in my skull after practice."

This earns Merlin a curling smirk from his companion, and no, he doesn't expect Arthur to praise him or to even be remotely impressed, but the appearance does send a jolt of heat against the prickly, eerie chill.

Arthur's name is announced, and Merlin gets his wishful victory, snickering with his face tilted from view when Arthur takes a couple moments longer than anyone else would have to seal a water bottle. Whether or not Arthur caught on the quiet noises, Merlin doesn't know, looking up from his hunched position in time to see Arthur's eyes on him.

They are without a specific emotion, calm and mindful, but the same endless, summery blue Merlin has always known. Eyes and a soul that knew far too much, and much too little wandering from a lost era.

Merlin's fingers dig themselves out of his neckerchief, lying back across the wood fence and spreading apart to grasp there. He blinks, pulling himself from the mutual, trance-like stare, watching Arthur leave for his fourth match and his new opponent: a muscle-bulked, visored man.

Unlike the archery tournament, the crowd is granted the freedom to cheer and to guffaw and to catcall those fighting, as much as they liked. They seem to be in favour of no one, but neither the man or Arthur pay much heed to their surroundings, only each other's expertise, to the swords clashing and ringing out with impacted metal.

Finally, a challenge rising up and worth the attention.

Arthur is practically smiling.

When the harsh blow to Arthur's shoulder registers across the distance, Merlin's face twitches rage as he gets up, but the instinctual flare-throb of his magic— to protect him— is so easily remembered from times-past, and just as easily ignored for immediate concentration.

Interference would prove nothing, and would doubtfully be appreciated.

And indeed, without anyone's aid... and showing that even so many years trapped in a mystical lake could not deter life-long experience... Arthur won that round, sword-end pointed to the other man's chest.

Merlin claps along out of rhythm with the rest of the spectators, but marches the grinning enthusiasm around him as he pokes his fingertips in his mouth and whistles high-pitched towards the grassy arena. Arthur can not seem to pinpoint him, despite their recent encounter, but had smiled faintly towards another direction.

The warlock snorts to himself at that. What a turniphead.

*

Arthur enters the competitor's tent with laboured breathing and a ghost of triumph in his smile. Unlike the others, Black offered a match worth contesting then. Perhaps he would continue in this good fortune.

The fifth match to come passes about the same, though his guard is raised to protect himself from any sleight of hand tricks this time.

Arthur focuses solely on the immediate moment instead of everything else— only the timing and preferred techniques of his opponents. As already proven, rounds are short, a quick pace.

Inside the tent, it's stuffy as the day progresses, the remaining amount of people dwindling to under a handful now. Arthur engages with a few, but the rounds keep others moving fast enough to keep conversation brief. Not that Arthur truly minded.

Every once in a while his eyes fall upon the smaller bracket inside compared to the one hanging out in the arena. The crest he picked rises steadily through the ranks. Arthur notices a small key in the corner with the different crests listed, but he never chances to see what that is about.

He's called out for the sixth round.

Arthur adjusts his armor, ignoring the muffled chatter he heard from the speakers outside. Sometimes they spoke up during matches or in between, but it's hard to hear unless you were standing in the opening. He makes his way towards it, the announcer's voice growing clearer as he goes.

" _As the last round comes to a close, the last two of our four challengers compete for their chance in the semi-finals to bring victory to their kingdoms! I give to ye, representing the noble Roder family of Nemeth, Sir Mitch!_ "

Arthur peeks through the flap to see an emerald green banner now hanging from the opposite side of the arena, a frown pulling at his lips. Did they just say—?

" _And his opponent, representing the noble Pendragon family of Camelot, Sir Arthur!_ "

A shock of cold shoots through him.

"What is the meaning of this?" Arthur demands, glaring at a worker. "Pendragon?"

The other man, brown, loose hair and rosy cheeks, blinks as if suddenly being pulled back to attention. He gestures to the roster on the wall. "That's the crest you chose in the beginning? The final rounds upgrade you to Knight standard, and you represent whatever kingdom you picked. They have banners and stuff; it's new. Figured they wanted to try it out."

He snivels a little, teeth exposed. "Go with it, mate. With the name you picked, it fits."

The name he… picked…?

Arthur fights off a draining sensation and instead swallows.

He wins the round in just under a minute.

Now with a fresh sheen of sweat lingering on his brow, Arthur stays in the corner of the arena, choosing not to enter the tent when there was no point in waiting.

He wipes his forehead with the back of his hand as the clapping drones on. An official moves the red banner to the centre to accompany a gold and black one.

Is that how they believe Camelot's crest appeared? A simplified version, black instead of gold with a dragon in the wrong position. He thinks about correcting them, imagines it in his head, but it's not as if this is a neighbouring kingdom. He's nearly two thousand years in the future… no one could have possibly known so long.

To them, to everyone, this is a lark to pass the time. Nothing of true importance.

" _Good nobles and fair maidens, it is nearly for the moment you've all been waiting for! Our two semi-finalists now battle for the chance to claim the title of tournament champion before heading into the final round with our actual knight, Sir Daniel von Blumenthal!_ "

Arthur rolls his eyes. An actual knight?

" _And now it begins! Our rising knight of Camelot, Sir Arthur, against the knight representing the family of Lot of Essetir, Sir Valiant!_ "

Valiant.

Arthur is at a loss, mind slowing as he waits expectantly for the familiar sight of a man from so long again to step in front of him. The man with the enchanted, wicked shield; the one who attempted to kill him to win a title of tournament champion. But, it's only a man close to Arthur's size standing across the arena, hair a light ginger and face scruffy.

He recognizes that competitive blaze in his eye, and Arthur wonders if there is connection.

The signal is given, and he's swept into the match. Heart pounding. The past few rounds escalated to using shields, which is much preferred for Arthur despite the 'clean fighting' rules set in place. He can fight with or without, but this allows him more tactical advantage. Plus, if they were looking for realism, they now have it.

Valiant is aggressive, his shoulders tensed with power to enforce his skilled blows. He side-steps forward, knocking Arthur's shield.

With a grunt, Arthur pushes him back, taking a swing of his own sword. Valiant leans, the tip of Arthur's sword dragging against the length of his opponent's before the yellow-clad competitor brings it back up, diminishing Arthur's attack.

They remain still, but their eyes meet in that time and a charge seems to echo around them.

Valiant means to dirty him up, to possibly even injuring him before it's through, and Arthur intends on returning the challenge if necessary. They rush towards each other, blocking and sliding out of the way or clashing swords at last moment. He's good, but Arthur think he's _better_.

It appears Valiant had not been given a similar training.

During close combat, Arthur moves to step back, to keep his sword from landing a blow to the stomach, but a foot on top of his boot snags him and jolts him in place. The hilt of Valiant's sword makes contact with the top of his shield, throwing his weight on and snapping Arthur towards the ground.

He winces, a burst of pain crackling through Arthur's shoulder.

A sweep of fury overcomes him as Arthur quickly spins out of the way, on his feet, before Valiant could entirely force him down onto the ground. Then, it's Arthur's turn to forget the rules.

A tucked dodge with a forward push, Arthur's shield colliding with the front of Valiant's chest. The other man grunts as he staggers backwards, exhaling in a wheeze... Arthur takes a large amount of satisfaction in the reaction, but even in the adrenaline coursing him, he knows he has to finish this fairly. Well, as fairly as possible.

Arthur swings, roaring out, blade hitting Valiant's.

The sword clatters to the arena's dirt a few feet off. The other man stumbles into a kneel. The tip of Arthur's blunt sword presses directly at the other's chest. After looking down at it incredulously, Valiant stares at Arthur with resigned disdain. He raises his arms in surrender.

" _Sir Arthur of Camelot is the champion!_ "

The blond man offers a hand to his opponent, who refuses it with a curt nod, helping himself to his feet. Arthur shrugs it off as he lets a small grin pull his features.

Yes, this is what he needs. He steps around and looks at the applauding and hollering crowd, chuckling under his breath at the amused, excited faces.

It simply never grows old—the cheering, the glory of respect well earned. Especially now.

If anything, it swells inside Arthur's chest and renews his energy, once again feeling as if nothing's wrong. As if this is another tournament from his past. He represents Camelot, even all these centuries later, and fights in its name—he's proud of that. Allows himself that emotion to simmer within him and nothing more. Anything else is dangerous.

Arthur's heart had been too loud at first to catch what the announcer says in the background, Arthur too busy heaving in his breaths and putting down his sword.

The names all so familiar, pulling at strings in his mind to trigger memories. To create false images that he knows aren't real. The Valiant of his time is dead, and certainly was not the man he fought. More than likely, the name's a fake, very much the same as 'Leon' or 'Du Bois'.

From where Arthur is, he gazes upon the higher-built platform, where the officials survey them.

In the centre, perched up and out in the open: a pale green egg, not much larger than a stone tablet. Arthur's first instinct is to scoff. Where they had gotten the idea to give that as a _prize_?

It's most likely nothing more than a trinket, perhaps glass like the box containing it or some other material. Arthur wouldn't have much use for it if he was to win.

*

Of course Arthur fell into the list of competitors for the eighth and final one.

It would be daft to misjudge a knight of Camelot's abilities.

Provided… everyone else didn't know this, but he knew Arthur. He knew perfectly of what Arthur was capable of with his hands gripping steel.

Merlin would not hear the end of it from his friend if he owned up to it, but in the years ago, the tourneys had been wild and thrilling. Boiled his blood, quickened his breath with anticipation when witnessing the mastery of skill and hard discipline. The (young at the time) warlock used to make a great show of rolling his eyes whenever someone mentioned a huge festival with jousting or swordplay, especially if his git of a master was adamant about being in attendance.

But all the while, Merlin secreted towards the white-stone entrance of Camelot's own fighting arena to watch alone or with Gaius. He cheered along with the rest of the kingdom. Yelling out curse words, thumping his fist to the stone wall beside him, or grinning and clapping.

Maybe there was… a little bit of clotpole in Merlin after all.

His weather-chapped hands tingle numb as he slows his applause, breath fanning out in cloudy gusts. Merlin's eyes pinpoint back on the tent where Arthur vanished.

He had yet to search out where the crests are being presented in the arena, and has an impression that it is placed facing the same direction he had been. Which does Merlin no good if he wanted a decent look at it.

Before he contemplates moving around the fenced-off area, to get a peek, the land of 'Nemeth' flinches Merlin, snapping his head up to the speakers so abruptly that his neck twinges.

After a moment of flustered self-musing, Merlin shoves down the urge to knock himself in the skull.

Legends had been aware of the names of the rest of the kingdoms, not just Camelot, though assumed fictional. (It's a medieval-themed faire, for god's sake, you idiot. Of course they knew.)

It's not until 'Pendragon!' announces overhead that Merlin's heart takes a straight dive towards his feet, as the crowd buzzes suddenly with renewed commotion and astonishment.

Oh, shite.

What the _bleeding_ hell is going on? What is Arthur doing? What on earth possessed him to change his name? Expose himself?

Rationalise this. Merlin's palm scrubs at his nose and forehead, his eyes closing. Must rationalise this.

The tournament obviously uses modified versions of family crests with the names of the ancient kingdoms. No one with a sensible mind and a firmly grounded inclination of reality (despite their enthusiasm for make-believe) would for a minute believe that Arthur was _King Arthur_ of legend.

Yet... the knot forming in Merlin's stomach doesn't loosen.

He glimpses Arthur, as the blond man paces on the outskirts, still fully armoured and twirling his sword in moony, practiced circles.

Strands of fine, yellow hair plastered to his temples by the trickle of perspiration. His movements on edge. Arthur's expression carries the distinction of restrained emotion, but his brow puckers with a deep frown. This can only mean this decision was made without him.

Arthur is not at fault about the name change.

Relief floods Merlin's chest. Arthur may have been thick, but really…

The continued trend of referring to a competitor as a "knight" or "actual knight" has Merlin smirking at the ridiculousness of it. A gimmick, for certain. Probably a hired hand, and if "Sir Daniel" was a knight of the modern century, it would be entertaining to say the least to see Old World collide with him.

A man with bright ginger hair and unevenly shaved facial hair goes forward as Arthur and he are instructed into the arena.

_Valiant._

It isn't the same man, Merlin's aware of that. But it does not help ease the tension from his muscles, grimacing outwardly when Arthur nearly hits the ground.

This sort of aggressive and brutal fighting is probably what Arthur desired all along, to vent his build-up of energy recently and… everything else he wouldn't bring out to the light of day. (That was coming. God help them all, but it was going to come.)

Unconsciously, Merlin's teeth worries his lip, as the heavy shields clang in the distance, but Arthur's strikes are more confident. He finally downs his opponent.

Merlin's lips twitch up.

"We shall commence with a short break, then Sir Arthur shall test his fate against our own Sir Daniel von Blumenthal for the prize of a lifetime! The throne of Albion, and a mysterious treasure said to be lost for ages: a rare, real dragon egg! The match shall begin in fifteen minutes, don't disappear!"

He does not join the celebration, though instinctively the warlock may have liked to have. Does not see Arthur's expression, or hear the faire-goers.

A… dragon's egg?

Everything clears out, bit-by-bit.

The hazy feeling, a similar attack on him from the archery grounds but without the ringing in his ears, grabs his consciousness and very limbs.

Merlin's hands knuckle the wood fence to steady himself. If he were a physically stronger man, it might have broke where his hands grasp with a death-lock.

Throne of… Albion?

('Don't be stupid, it's just a faire,' the little voice in Merlin's head sneers. Enough venom and malice to be worthy of Morgana's standards.)

It's not a coincidence.

(' _You're starting to lose it, mate. But you know that already, don't you? You've known that since the start of the 20th century._ ')

Shut up.

(' _Who is afraid of the Big Bad Emrys?_ ')

 **SHUT** —

(' _Just his shadow._ ')

"—up," Merlin mouths out, chest heaving tightly and his entire frame shuddering. He blinks a couple times, and shakes his head to rid the dense quality of fog out of his mind. That poisonous voice of his self-doubt kindled over the ages, his own intense loathing.

One of the tournament officials exits from a separate tent, presenting to everyone a clear glass box. Pillowed inside, a spring green egg. What looks like an egg anyway. Not an exceptional size. Maybe of Aithusa's egg when she had been called.

Merlin sighs out, shoulders hunching, blue eyes wide. He knows, at that very moment, _everything_ has changed. The egg is real.

The prickling of his skin, how his body reacts to the foreign traces of… untouched magic, and the chance that this all has been set up from the beginning.

He needs Arthur here. Now.

Merlin's fingertips return poking into his open mouth, and he whistles as noisy as he can. He waits until Arthur is close enough, and whispers, face darkened over with apprehension, "It's bloody real. The egg is real."

The message doesn't register at first as Arthur stares. But once he turns the words over, Arthur stops short of the fence.

"It's _what_?" he says faintly, shaking his head. "Merlin, that's impossible. Dragons were extinct in our time… but now they…"

But that isn't quite true, was it? In Merlin's tellings, the Great Dragon had been there at Arthur's death. He spoke words of hope to Merlin, and there had been another young one Arthur himself encountered. Perhaps…

"Are you sure?" Arthur asks, tone low and commanding.

Merlin can't fault him for the stark disbelief in his eyes. It seems nearly impossible for something so precious and extraordinary to turn up in the middle of a common place. Unless someone planted it.

The apprehension tightens at Merlin's face, thinning his mouth. He has wondered why he has felt as he had previously… it makes sense.

"They're n-…" Merlin says, cutting himself when he realises where they were. And what the circumstances are.

A gruff breath escapes him, and Merlin's hands do not relent knuckling the fence. "It'll take too long to explain," he mutters. "And I can't do this…out here. Not now."

Both men glance towards the orange tent in unison, but Merlin pulls his gaze away first, heart thudding. "I'm a _Dragonlord_ ," he says, flatly. The surface of his lips tingling familiarly with the importance of his patriarchal title. "I would know if it was a fake. Even this far away."

He had not heard Merlin say it yet, only accusations from Arthur himself. The situation feels more grave. Arthur has countless questions, wants to demand a real explanation from him.

Merlin wrenches one of his hands free, with some difficulty, lowering his head and wiping at his too-dry mouth with his palm.

"Arthur, you can't find dragon eggs anywhere near this end of the country. Haven't for the past six hundred years." Merlin's jaw clenches up. He meets Arthur's eyes firmly. "There's another magic-wielder here besides me. Someone strong if they can mask their presence from me."

It shouldn't be possible, he considers. Unless they had already gone. But why leave behind a precious magical artifact?

" _Another_?" Arthur repeats, this time his hands grasping at the fence like Merlin.

In his time, magic had been feared because of what his lord father and other kings claimed, and there had been a right to fear it. Arthur had for a long time.

But now, it's merely a fairy-tale, and Arthur doubts that can end well.

There isn't enough time to waste on a history lesson, of all things.

If the magic-wielder is truly still in the vicinity of the fairegrounds, and is responsible for this egg, Merlin needs to figure out what they are up to. And why they have come at all.

He listens to Arthur work it out for himself, and eyes calmly where Arthur's hands joining side-by-side to Merlin's right hand still grasping rigid at the waist-level fence. Arthur is trying to not sound as Merlin was feeling at that moment—awed and dazed.

"It's being offered as a prize," Arthur says aloud. "If I win, I will get it. But, if not…"

"Well, I'll admit as much that you are a royal arse…" A gleeful smile quirks at the corner of Merlin's mouth, towards his king as Merlin adds, intently, eyes taking in a paler hue of blue, "but, you are handy with a sword as it turns out. I don't believe you'll lose. And you shouldn't either."

Merlin speaks of pure certainty, which is something he's accustomed to from him, but it never fails to catch Arthur by surprise each time.

Complete devotion had always been one of his favorite aspects of Merlin's.

He silently gestures for one of Arthur's arms, raising an eyebrow in sly challenge when Arthur gives him a strange, questioning look.

Once he receives the arm outstretched, Merlin removes the archery bracer from his own wrist and clips it in place over Arthur's in his hold.

" _Cíæoleás fram drýcræft_ ," he mumbles under his breath, almost too quietly, eyelids glowing faintly with swirling gold.

Merlin's eyes reopen, clear blue reflecting back.

He pats the bracer, fingers brushing it softly. Blocking out the flare of a non-physical sting from becoming visible; something deep and scratching at the nexus of his magic and repelling it away.

"Wearing this will block the effects of any sorcery, as long as you have it," he says, dropping Arthur's forearm like he has been burned by the very contact, "Including mine."

At the conflicted look from his friend, Merlin assures him, smile locked where it was, despite its weakened nature, "Can't take any chances."

Arthur frowns, studying the other man, and decides not to protest. Being protected by magic has its advantages.

Merlin reaches for his bag, pulling out the second water bottle and thrusts it to the curved metal of training armor, to Arthur's sternum, until it's taken and draws his hand away.

"You always talk about duty and honour and rubbish like that." Merlin snorts at the flicker of annoyance. "I didn't understand it until later. So, you see, it's _mine_ to protect that egg, as it is also mine to see that the man I call my King gets what he needs."

Despite the obvious affection in Merlin's words, he plays it off casually.

Merlin slings the bag over his shoulder, naming off thoughtfully, "Like scrubbed boots or laundered socks, or taking a water jug to my head." He jerks his chin to Arthur's wrist. "Or providing him with warding talismans because I'm going to check on the egg and if I run into any trouble, he won't be _completely_ useless on his own."

"I can handle myself just fine," he insists, clenching his teeth at the mention of 'water jug'. "But you go find out more about the egg. I'll go on with the match and keep an eye out." Arthur leans towards the railing, his fingers flexing around the bottle, but then he looks over at him pointedly.

"Be careful, Merlin." he speaks up, grimly. "I don't want to come rescue you as usual."

That's the last thing they need.

*


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No big announcement this time - other than my disturbing lack of sleep and a new goal to make it to 500 fics within 18 to 28 months. AND THAT I LOVE YOU GUYS LOTS. ALWAYS, ALWAYS. THANKS FOR PUTTING UP WITH ME. :3 ♥ ♥
> 
> I'd like to thank my newest beta [veritably_mad](http://archiveofourown.org/users/veritably_mad/pseuds/veritably_mad/) for helping me out last minute and everyone who has supported me so far. As well as my Britpick [ememmyem](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ememmyem/pseuds/ememmyem) who saved my neck. Half of this fic wouldn't exist without [marlena_darling](http://archiveofourown.org/users/marlena_darling/pseuds/marlena_darling) and I wanna say thank you for taking this journey with me and you've been a best friend to me. I love you lots and this is ours.

*

There had been a time, long, long ago, where a few honest words been enough to yank Excalibur from the impregnable boulder Merlin fastened it deep within. (Merlin's words trickling like soothing water,. Then his magic providing the counter, with molten-heat, releasing the sword from the stone, safely grasped in Arthur's hand).

Words are the equivalent of _power_. That has always been true.

Words topple whole kingdoms and civilizations. Words strengthen others, and in turn zap it straight away. Words hold no alliance to the goods or evils of this world, and can only be determined from the mouths of those who expressed them.

Of all things Arthur could appear wonderstruck by, anything at all, Merlin never fully expects his genuine and trusting words.

From Camelot's time, when he had been the dutiful, youthful manservant, the still of time within the borders of the Darkling Woods was private. Just for them. While the other knights had fallen into dreamless sleep, both he and Arthur would lean against a felled, mossy trunk, whispering amongst the shadows and dim glow of the firelight. About the mission, what was at stake, and Arthur might have let his self-doubt slip free as it clung to his sedate expression.

And Merlin's words would come from him effortlessly, like they were bottled away for this conversation promised at a later date. They came with as much faith and purpose as the stare he pinned on his king's profile. Arthur might have turned his head to level his own eyes to Merlin's unblinking stare, and the warlock had to speculate then if he _knew_.

If Arthur knew how important he was to the seemingly _unimportant_ boy in the cultural system they lived in. How much he was loved, how desired and how Merlin could not bear the thought, to repeat time and time again, of losing this man to the clutches of a gruesome death.

Which is why Merlin always insisted he come along, eventually his presence becoming somewhat of a requirement at the king's side—though doing his best to try to convince Arthur leave out the dangerous tasks to undertake (continuously thwarted by Arthur's own stubborn nature, more stubborn than Merlin's apparently — "Your funny feeling again, _Mer_ lin?").

Sorcery had saved Arthur's life more times that he could keep up with, and this is no different now, if it had to be.

Arthur's blue eyes do not narrow down at the magically-warded item, or regret it with distrust.

At least not openly.

The lack of emotion allows Merlin to feel slightly better about having to do it in the first place. He still doesn't feel… right about using magic in front of Arthur. Old habit, he supposes. But absolutely necessary this time.

Merlin witnesses the visible tick at 'water pitcher' and has to bit the inside of his cheek. It's a hazy memory at best.

He didn't have much clarity _AFTER_ taking the blow, when Arthur's temper tantrum had still been at its peak. Merlin relied on others for the steadier account. He should have ducked it, or had tried harder… or not had made that passing, sarcastic comment about Arthur's weight at all. But it had been their usual banter, no more.

Except Arthur had been at his wits-end about the hostility of Rheged, a kingdom to the far west of Camelot.

And Merlin was in no mood himself for a cranky king, having spent the entire night skulking through the castle. He looked for the hidden antechamber with Uther's privy of magic-based texts stolen from the Druids (rumoured and 'confirmed' to have been burned during the Great Purge)—desperately attempting whatever hack-brained idea Merlin could then to put an end to the prophecy of Arthur's murder.

If he couldn't kill Mordred, then there had to be another way…

Merlin _did_ remember however the sharp burst of pain, how his legs gave. His stomach roiled against him when the world shrank to darkness. The warmth of the lap his aching head rested on.

Arthur couldn't look him in the eye for days. Gwen had been _furious_ with him, refusing to speak to Arthur until he had properly spoken with Merlin and apologised. At least, the queen got the message through to her husband by using an embarrassed Leon as a mouthpiece. Eventually, Arthur did apologise, while they were alone—and Merlin forgave him.

He always _forgave_ him, even if Arthur hadn't deserved it…

_Be careful._

"I'll be back before the match starts, I promise." Merlin nods to him, inwardly anxious about having to leave. Merlin's hand flexes to the straps of his bag. He says brightly, stepping away before thinking more on it, "Careful is my middle name," winking.

A majority of the faire-goers are scattered around the arena, and do not suspect Merlin of being up to anything as he weaves around them.

Invisibility may not work in his favour if the magic-wielder is inside the official's tent, especially if they have mastered shielding techniques. He may have to chance other means to get alone with the dragon egg.

Merlin glances around, before flattening himself against a thick, wood beam, right near a loosened flap of the orange tent. The warlock listens for any approaching footsteps and finds none. Senses three or four people in the tent. All of them are mortal souls, as far as he can tell.

He weighs his options, and crouches down, one knee digging into cold mud as he peeks through the slit the tent flap provides.

"Oi!"

Merlin stiffens up as a female voice calls in his direction. Should have gone invisible anyway, his thoughts complain.

"What are you— _Leon_?"

He frowns, shifting his crouch to glimpse up at Sally, nose-piercing and all, smiling excitedly down at him.

"I thought you were here, love!" she says, cheerfully. "Larry and I saw your friend competing earlier."

Merlin returns the smile, more _relief_ than happiness.

"Yes, right, he is," he breathes. Glances briefly over her staff name-tag buttoned over her elaborately adorned corset. "… You're working the faire now?"

She shrugs. "I know a mate who asked for help and I got roped in last minute. It has its advantages with the discount." Her dark eyes shine curiously on him. "Was there something you needed?"

Merlin's mouth open without his permission. "The loo," he says.

"The loo… in this tent?" Sally gave him a doubting look, but her smile widens. "This isn't about getting a _peek_ at the treasure, now is it?"

He beams despite his heart drumming in his throat.

"Too right," Merlin says, faking a guilty downward tug of his lips. "Did the faire have this planned before? The announcement seemed sudden."

"Oh, no. They got an anonymous donation." The dark-haired woman says gleefully, "I've never seen anyone with the likes of her."

" _Her_?" Already so practiced with fighting down his emotions, Merlin asked, face smoothed over with blankness, "You saw her?"

"She was so _pretty_. Like an old world beauty. Really wore the medieval clothing well." Sally taps on her bare neck. "There was a mark there, I saw. Three broad lines running in the same direction. Almost reminded me of a… I dunno, a Celtic symbol, probably. I'm no expert."

Merlin's voice keeps soft, and he pushed his dread from exposing itself. "That spanned out as the lines got thicker?"

She laughs, enthralled.

"And how did you know that?"

"It's an ancient symbol for the embodiment of '[three circles of creation](http://renegadetribune.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/07/BW-Awen-small.jpg)', if that's what she was trying to have copied on her neck. I used to study mythology."

_There's no way._

But it has to have been. The Faerie Queen.

It can't be _HER_ —how can she have—?

"I would have liked to have spoken to her," Merlin says, urgently. "She didn't leave a home address or mobile? Nothing at all?"

"Not even a name for us to write down." Sally replies, "She's already left, didn't even want a thanks. Those rich types, yea?" When Merlin doesn't offer any agreement in joking, she clears her throat awkwardly.

"Will I see you later then?"

"Maybe," he says. "I hope so."

Her round face smiles. "I'll be watching!" Sally calls out, waving back as Merlin waves. "Wish your friend luck from me!" He walks on, letting his mind pick apart the finer details in silence. Merlin can't get to the egg now, certainly not now, but he will be damned before he allows it to be passed off into the wrong hands.

If this is— truly is— then he hasn't a clue on what the next move was.

*

The grin slowly fades as Merlin earlier leaves his sight, and Arthur sucks in a breath breath as his attention drifts to the enchanted object on him.

There's no telling if he would actually require it, or if what Merlin senses is truly here.

Arthur doesn't like the _open_ factors, especially when he is already out of his element. But the armour is familiar, as is the weight of his sword (even if it's not _his_ ). His surroundings are just enough to throw Arthur back into the mindset he's accustomed to. And fighting the evils of magic is a battle he has undertaken multiple times.

The thought causes Arthur's eyes to drag over towards the tent where the egg is kept once more, lips pursing.

While at times Merlin acts as if he has no clue, Arthur is fully aware of how _brave_ the other man is. Merlin is clever, though most of the time a right _idiot_ , but he has managed to keep himself alive thus far without Arthur's help. The reasons behind that are dutifully blocked out for the time being. Arthur doesn't need to think about the encounter with an axe Merlin has mentioned, or how he knew Merlin couldn't actually _die_.

How _close_ Merlin can get to death with the life still inside him.

Arthur forces back the rest of those thoughts. Sneaking into a tent would not lead to such drastic measures.

He means to circle the arena, instead of standing around uselessly, when Arthur finds himself meeting eyes with a woman. Her dress as blue as one of Morgana's. Her dark hair braided towards the top of her head, draping over her shoulders loosely. Her slate-grey eyes coyly on him.

Arthur halts, offering a polite smile and a gracious nod like before, but she's moving on.

He's trapped, his own manners refusing to let him turn away now that Arthur knows she wants to speak to him. Part of him groans inwardly, and another part vaguely guesses if there's a chance this is the sorcerer—or, _sorceress_ —Merlin felt. Arthur straightens his back, so by the time the woman takes Merlin's place on the other side of the fence, he's facing her.

"That was admirable skill you displayed," she says, and her voice flows sugar-sweet. Arthur forces himself to smile in gratitude, his head bowing modestly.

"Thank you, my lady," Arthur replies, and her smile goes large, her front teeth lightly digging in to her lower lip.

" _Milady_ Sophie," she corrects. "I couldn't help but notice you rolling your shoulder. Are you hurt?"

Arthur opens his mouth to deny it, that he's only sore, but the words disappear from his lips. Her hand rests on Arthur's forearm and slowly slides upwards. He glances confused at the gesture, only this time to find her peeking up at him through her eyelashes.

"I'm quite good with my hands, if it needs some soothing," Milady Sophie says.

 _God_. Arthur looks around them for something to do to cover his sheer disbelief. _What_ is taking Merlin so long?

"It's quite alright, thank you," Arthur tells her, dismissively.

She does not seem deterred. Her hand remains on his bicep, and the other trails to rest upon her collarbone.

"Perhaps you need something to bring you luck," Milady Sophie announces, eyebrows arching. "I believe a token of my affection could aid you in such a way."

To her credit, Arthur has heard plenty of statements like this before. And while he may have accepted them in years past, or accepted Gwen's… it is far from appropriate presently. Arthur just wants to search Merlin out, find an excuse to leave. The match would be starting soon… could he excuse himself to warm up?

And then, like a godsend, Arthur's eyes land on the form of Merlin. He nearly sags with relief.

"That's quite kind, milady," Arthur says to her, the forced sort of smile reappearing. "But I'm afraid I've already promised to wear someone else's."

Milady Sophie jerks her head to see where Arthur's gaze pinpoints.

"Oh?" she replies, tone guarded with curiosity.

"If you'll excuse me."

*

Merlin slows. His clear-water blue eyes discovering Arthur, and numbly following where a woman's fingers boldly stroke up Arthur's forearm.

Is this _intruding_ on a moment he shouldn't have? Did Arthur know her? _How_?

The woman in blue is _very_ friendly with him, gently touching his arm and smiling flirtatiously.

Even without hearing them speak, he can tell she is.

A stabbing, agitated feeling closes Merlin's throat, and urges him to want to turn right around. Ignore what's happening ( _what_ is happening?) and go… blimey, he doesn't fucking know.

Before Merlin considers an option, Arthur's expression deepens into a scowl and he makes little head jerks for Merlin to come over. Which may have been hilarious at any other point in time, but Merlin feels strangely and noticeably _reassured_ by his friend's discomfort.

Merlin's shoulders brace themselves when the woman's eyes hover over. He offers a little smile, not wide enough to be amiable, and heads to Arthur at the other end of the fence.

Arthur gazes over him expectantly, muttering, "You should give me your scarf."

At the further look, they glance back. "She offered me a token to wear for the next round," Arthur explains. His eyes soften. He flicks his gaze from Merlin's neckerchief to Merlin's eyes. "But… I told her someone else had already offered, so I need…"

Merlin narrows his eyes a little.

"…what?" he finally says, suppressing the unconscious move to dig a finger in his ear.

_What?_

At the ridiculous explanation, the warlock stares astonished, lips parting.

"Are you _joking_? You could have just said 'no' instead of looking like a prat by _lying_ …"

The criticism far from appreciated, as Merlin reads into the heated, withering look from the other man.

It isn't the first time Arthur listened to his own words and wished he had chosen differently. Perhaps this isn't the way he should have gone about it. Of course, this was _Mer_ lin, but it was also _Merlin_. If it simply been an excuse from Milady Sophie's unwanted affections… Arthur would not have been bothered, but he finds himself withering from the looks.

 _Yes_ , he should have approached this differently.

It isn't as if Arthur hadn't been entertaining the question in his mind before. Arthur almost asked before the fourth round called him away. Yet here he is, practically demanding, and everything in Arthur told him he could have handled that _better_. Merlin's reaction only confirms it.

"I believed the only way I would have been able to make it known, was to wear someone's token I _truly_ wanted."

Merlin shakes his head at him, scrubbing his fingers into his hair and grumbling under his breath. After a silent pause, he raises his eyebrows in a unspoken surrender of ' _oh well_ '. Merlin's fingers drift to the nape of his neck, digging for the frayed knot and working it apart.

It's only _sort of_ irritating that a formerly affectionate and serious ritual for a tournament is being spoiled.

A corner of Merlin's mouth tilts up, despite himself. When he can reach for it without stumbling for his balance over the wood fence, Merlin folds the grey-blue cloth into a band-shape.

The partial joke escapes him as he wraps the neckerchief tightly to Arthur's muscular bicep. "What, you want a good luck kiss, as well?"

" _It couldn't hurt._ "

Arthur's murmur-low tone would not be glossed over, nor the meaning of his words. It's solely for _their_ ears.

It may have been out of precaution, seeing as Arthur was completely unaccustomed to this behavior out in the open. Not that much time had been granted him for adjusting, for the change in their relationship, but it's another step.

Merlin tries to not look too self-satisfied, keeping his eyes on his task and finishing with knotting his banded, flattened neckerchief in place.

He does flick his gaze up once to see Arthur's smile widen on him. Merlin has to suck in an audible breath through his mouth, heart going rather fast for standing in one place. His entire mouth dry like Merlin has taken a sprinting jog with it hanging open.

"Save the wooing for when you're actually impressive," Merlin murmurs, the corners of his mouth lifting into a softer-looking grin.

Arthur can't help his laugh. Perhaps it's because of the bemusement he feels, realising he _is_ trying to woo Merlin.

"Is being a _king_ not enough for you?" he questions, cocking his eyebrows.

His attention lingers on Merlin's face, even without looking up now guesses it right on his grinning, weather-chapped lips. And refuses to acknowledge the effect of that attention, to name it responsible for his flush.

Merlin's fingers tighten the neckerchief's tiny knot once more, inattentively brushing over the interlocked ridges of the cheap mail.

He scoffs lightly, mockingly.

"Afraid it isn't," Merlin informs him, pretending to appear gravely studious even as Arthur leans in, closer than he expects.

"Y'know what I've found out?" he begins, knowing Arthur would listen. Merlin wets his lips with a swipe of his tongue, firmly staring back at summer-blue eyes. "Any man worth the honour and esteem of others can speak not just not just through words, but through action. They define the kind of man he is, too."

"… That was incredibly insightful for you, Merlin." Arthur says, words lacking any bite that otherwise could have been taken as insult. There's a rumbling in the distance, but like the rest of the world around them at the time being it goes ignored.

"As I've said before… _I have many talents_."

Merlin's fingers drag from Arthur's arm, losing a cool sensation of metal to his skin. "It's up to you whether you chose to be aware of them," he adds.

He misses the shudder, how Arthur's eyes follow the movement of a slip of pink tongue, but not how the body in front of him relaxes where Arthur bows his spine, resting his forearms down to the fence. Merlin isn't sure at first if he _has_ been challenging anything in what he said, but won't be opposed to favourable outcomes.

"I'll have you know…" Arthur whispers, mindfully. "I have quite a bit of experience with both words and action."

Merlin wonders faintly if he has forgotten about the woman in blue (not that she cares much for them anymore, already left the grassy area).

"Prove it."

A rumble of thunder above their heads. The light drizzle falls, blowing against his face with the cold rush of the wind picking up. With their luck, it would be a downpour.

Breaking the intense gaze a moment, Merlin slings off his bag and reaches into it, face tilting from view and blue eyes slipping into a flare of gold. A big, midnight-black umbrella yanks out with Merlin's right hand, clicking open as he holds it right to the crest of their heads. It provides enough cover from the drizzle of rain and any passerby.

_Prove it._

Arthur's heart jumps in time with the second coming of thunder, mind racing with possibilities.

Merlin isn't completely sure if Arthur caught the big damn hint being thrust right at his face, or if he's willing to go through with it.

He watches with lips pressed together deliberately as a film of rain glistens on strands of yellow. And denies himself the temptation of hooking his fingers into Arthur's hair to tug his head up for a better angle and say to hell with anyone looking in their direction.

But Arthur still isn't ready to display those kind of emotions, not having worked them out altogether about… them, let alone what strangers of this century would make of him. Which is why Merlin is in part glad he conjured the dark, oversized umbrella, screening them from their upper arms and up.

"Handy, isn't it," Merlin teases, grin still soft, looking down at Arthur.

The pitter of raindrops draws Arthur's eyes up in musing, considering the new privacy, lips curving up into a tiny smirk.

"Very," he says, low.

Merlin considers saying something else, maybe more inane reasons why umbrellas are fantastic, modern items. But then, suddenly, he has Arthur's lips. Merlin uses very light pressure to push his mouth back into the hurried kiss. A flurry of heat steals up him, pulsing towards the core of his chest.

He keeps one hand on the umbrella handle, and with the other hand stretches out and drops for the sensation he wanted earlier—fine, wet hair tangling between his exploring fingers. Arthur's scalp a welcomed source of heat in the autumn-cold. Merlin strokes there, relocking their lips with a quiet intake of breath.

Arthur doesn't allow himself to entertain the fact that his courage had come from an _inanimate_ object.

But, truthfully, it's not so much the object, but what it offers them.

 _Privacy_.

It's all so gentle, chaste, and different from their kisses before. Power and raw emotion the other times, but this is simpler. _Indulging_.

Merlin savours the moment he's been granted, parting his mouth and grazing his teeth slightly over Arthur's bottom lip, smiling again at a louder inhale.

His skin tingles when a phantom-like touch sweeps across his jaw. Arthur's fingers draw Merlin's head to tilt another way, angling it for the kiss to fit more solidly. His thumb dragging across Merlin's cheek without a specific pattern. Can't even be arsed to get up from the fence for a proper snog. Merlin's smile deepens, amused.

Even with the sun so high up in the day, as the rain sounding fainter for the minute… there's low lit shadows cast under the umbrella. It takes away a sharper view of Arthur except for the absolute blue of his eyes.

Merlin's eyes widen from slitting and nearly closing, and he hates ending this. He really does… really, _really_ does. The gentleness from Arthur is so _new_ , in ways, and Merlin's thankful for its appearance, though belated in their lives.

He pulls away, their mouths still inches from each other. Merlin can still taste salt and the powdery film of sugar from the flesh-soft on Arthur's mouth, from the same, delicious treat they shared earlier. Arthur's bracer emits a hum that creeps against Merlin's skin, like a _warning_.

Paler, longer fingers trace small, apologetic circles to Arthur's scalp, trying to convey his reluctance without speaking, before releasing him.

Merlin swallows hard, but reveals nothing, teeth exposing to a carefree smile.

"Don't lose, dollophead," Merlin whispers.

He then gives in to a spontaneous impulse, shoving his palm playfully against Arthur's face and backing him out of the umbrella's space as Merlin lifts it safely away from the other man. He laughs at Arthur's gobsmacked expression, gesturing out with his free hand knowingly.

*


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNING CONTENT** : Homophobic/queerphobic violence is featured in this chapter. See bottom note for more of me talking about it or you can skip. Also, thank you guys so much for reading!! I love hearing your thoughts!
> 
> I'd like to thank my newest beta [veritably_mad](http://archiveofourown.org/users/veritably_mad/pseuds/veritably_mad/) for helping me out last minute and everyone who has supported me so far. As well as my Britpick [ememmyem](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ememmyem/pseuds/ememmyem) who saved my neck. Half of this fic wouldn't exist without [marlena_darling](http://archiveofourown.org/users/marlena_darling/pseuds/marlena_darling) and I wanna say thank you for taking this journey with me and you've been a best friend to me. I love you lots and this is ours.

*

The gentle nature of the kiss is something to be admired, perhaps even reveled.

Arthur often found himself communicating with pushy movements, jarring and rough-housing, and Merlin went along with it as much as a chicken-limbed man could.

He _does_ enjoy this. The roll of fingers encouragingly against Arthur's scalp once teeth and lips pull away, and instead of chasing it like he so wishes to do, Arthur stays put.

This can't last. Not here.

Arthur's lower lip partially sucks into his mouth. The last lingering taste of sugar and Merlin.

While he may have glared otherwise at the shove by Merlin, this time Arthur grins and chuckles. He reaches up and put a hand over Merlin's token, feigning to check the tie.

"Couldn't possibly lose now, could I?" Arthur calls in return.

The rain turns to a light drizzle, but the sun pierces through the overcast enough to shine down on the field. The announcer comes over the speakers, alerting everyone of the match, and that it would only be a matter of minutes. Arthur remains in the tent to keep dry for the time being, occasionally turning his shoulder. It's starting to feel better, but letting it tense would do him no good in the round.

Finally, he's called out.

"Our tournament champion, Sir Arthur, shall now compete for the _ultimate_ prize—the throne of Albion!"

A shudder passes through him. He has to remind himself this is all an act, because if not the idea of _competing_ would have gotten to him.

Arthur steps back into the grassy area, drawing his sword in preparation when he witnesses a man already standing across from him. Older, a few streaks of grey hair by his ears. Coal-dark eyes stare right at Arthur as if examining him.

How the man carries himself is enough to indicate that he knows what he's doing, ' _actual knight_ ' or not. It's not a battle position, but more for _show_ , much like how Gwaine would fight when he knew his opponent was not even close to his remarkable skill.

A flare of defiance throbs in Arthur's chest as he bows his head in greeting.

"—against our star knight, Sir Daniel von Blumenthal!"

Both men fall into position, expecting, waiting. The signal goes off to start the match, but neither of them lunge forward.

Instead, at the same time, they take a step to their right, sizing the other up. Arthur knows it's an examination for a weak point; a place where he could disarm Arthur quickly and smoothly to get this over with. But unlike this man's thinking, Arthur won't make it that easy.

Arthur pulls his left arm back, shield coming off to the side, and apparently it's the cue Sir Blumenthal needed. He comes at him, his mobility fluid and easy all while holding a great strength.

He aims for Arthur's shoulder, but at the last second, it's blocked with Arthur's own sword. The clash of metal echoes in the rain, the grating sound of them sliding apart as Arthur pushes him away. He quickly sidesteps to aim a blow at Sir Blumenthal's side.

Skilled footwork and equally timed blows, most of which are deflected. The match goes on like this. It's hardly dull; they move around each other with a new-found thrill for the challenge, seeing as it's now a real competition. Despite this, Arthur grows impatient, his mind more on the egg he has to acquire, and his opponent seems just as ready to end this.

It's when the men pause that Arthur lunges, the full moon circles he has been swinging coming to a sudden end. He clashes with Sir Blumenthal's sword but the man staggers back, and Arthur takes advantage to swing again.

This time it hits pauldron. When he yanks away, Arthur spins out of the way of another sword, his own colliding forcefully with the vambrace covering Sir Blumenthal's arm.

The sound reverberates, and perhaps it's out of the pain or shock, but the older man drops his sword-arm. Within seconds, Arthur presses his blunted sword against Sir Blumenthal's chest.

" _Incredible!_ Sir Arthur of Camelot has won! He is King of Albion!"

Arthur lets out a ragged breath, features showing his relief for a brief moment before he sheathes the sword. His head turns, and as it does, Sir Blumenthal takes a knee down.

"My king," he says in a low monotone. Arthur clenches his jaw.

_It's pretend._

Arthur watches him grab his sword, and then offers his hand silently. He studies him a moment before taking it, the handshake firm.

"You have quite the experience of swordfighting. Tell me, how did you learn?" Sir Blumenthal asks, and Arthur's lips pull faintly in the corner.

"I've been training since I was a boy. Family skill."

Sir Blumenthal nods, sternly. "I'm impressed," the knight says, and Arthur tips his head in gratitude. He gets the feeling the older man _isn't_ impressed often.

He releases Arthur's hand and reaches into the pocket of his uniform, presenting out a card.

"I had these on me in case anyone's interested, but in this case I'm the one interested in _you_. I run a local company, one that teaches fighting techniques and history on weaponry for faires like this. We also give demonstrations and help with some film groups in the area. If you're looking for a job, feel free to call that number there."

Arthur takes the small white card and peers down at it.

While he doesn't know what film groups are or what exactly these numbers mean, it's a respectful offer. Even if he hasn't worked a day in his life.

"Thank you," Arthur responses before tucking it in the pocket on his trousers. "I'll keep it in mind."

Sir Blumenthal gestures behind him, smirking. "Looks like they're wanting to start your ceremony."

*

His eyes had been drawn to the hypnotic-slow, inward pull of Arthur's lip.

Merlin had almost forgotten to go through with the shove. Wanting unconsciously a longer, more thorough savour of fleshy pink.

Though clearly with playful intent, Merlin's shove turned out to be a tad rough (" _horseplay_ ," his memories tell him. It takes the greatest amount of self-control to not wince at the painful quality of them; rather, one in particular, where Merlin slapped the back of Arthur's head with a leather glove and watched in undisguised horror as Arthur knuckled his hand into said glove, sending his manservant a cruel beginnings of a smirk before walloping him across the back of the head).

He shoots him a semi-apologetic look when Arthur nearly stumbles off his balance. Nearly.

A soft chuckle floats out from Arthur's mouth, clouding a puff of visible breath to cold air.

The unoffended, spirited grin is all Merlin needs to believe that this can be done. That they are close. That his king can _win_ , a ridiculous title and glory to behold, but also that a life can be saved.

One of Merlin's kin.

The irony of a male Pendragon _saving_ the life of a magical creature is not to be taken lightly.

Arthur's fingers clasp firmly over the grey-blue neckerchief on his arm, knowing full well it would not unknot or slip free easily. It's a kindhearted motion, almost tender. At the brash, confident declaration, Merlin shakes his head at him a bit, trying to quirk his lips downward to conceal the growing, affectionate smile.

He catches sight of one or two faire-goers nearby glancing between him and Arthur's departing back with some mild interest, and Merlin decides to ignore them, closing his dripping umbrella.

A little drizzle never harmed anyone, especially if used to the country. It always rained in some parts, come hell or high water, or blinded with the thick fog. If Arthur got his hands on a car of all things, there was no bloody way Merlin was letting him drive through _fog_.

The speaker-announcement of 'Albion' works a prickle of awareness, snapping Merlin's attention to the center arena, where the "actual knight" and Arthur are in ready fighting stances.

At the signal, they size each other up, frozen in place. Sunlight glinting off their armor.

Merlin's eyes spots the bracer still to Arthur's wrist and feels a swell of relief in his gut that Arthur had not fought him about wearing it. Precaution, that's all.

Until he can _prove_ that… whoever it is capable of magic, if they have been the same person to donate the egg, does not have intentions for any interference.

Whoever had made the first move, Merlin did not catch, distracted by his thoughts. He claps on encouragingly, more habit from times-past than actually assuming Arthur would _notice_ —of course he wouldn't. An " _actual knight_ " was focused on his battle, not the crowd.

Merlin's ears pick out the harsh clanging on impacting metal, even beneath the roar of the others surrounding the tournament. A panting Arthur tilting his sword to the fallen man, expression impassive. Wait, he did it?

_He did it!_

Merlin whoops as loudly as he manage, punching a fist in the air as the crowd goes ecstatic at the mention of their new king.

 _King_. Arthur is a king again.

At some rubbish faire.

What were the gods even playing at anymore? Merlin's grin spreads wider.

The rest of the competitors file near a low-level stage on one of the ends of the grassy arena, as the officials assemble there.

"Before the crowning of our new king, now may I introduce this year's Queen of Albion! Charlie Bradbury!"

Oh _hell_. Merlin laughs aloud, clapping twice as hard as his new friend bows her head, hair pulled back and a tiara sitting neatly in red hair.

"Doesn't she look lovely?"

He gazes to his side, as Gilda appears, hand lightly touching his shoulder and a proud look in her eyes as she stares right ahead to the stage. "It suits her... in a silly, Charlie way."

"Queen of your heart, I expect," Merlin teases her gently.

Spots of colour kiss her cheeks, as she nudges his side.

"Hush up and watch her crown Arthur."

*

Arthur hears the announcement with his head snapping 'round in bewilderment. And sure enough, there in front of him on stage, is Charlie herself.

He makes his way up on the platform, smiling. She peers over at him, taking his arm courteously.

"Should I start calling you Aragorn or something, because you were _amazing_!" Charlie says, excitably. When Arthur raises an eyebrow, she raises her own.

"Lord of the Rings? _Seriously?_ Nothing?"

He gives a hint of a head-shake. She sighs, patting his forearm in sympathy.

"You're breaking the rules of larping, man."

Arthur accepts his lack of knowledge this time, knowing this is not the place to ask what on earth she's talking about with all the people watching. Instead, they assume their roles when Charlie is handed a larger crown, and Arthur lowers to his knees.

For a moment, a smirk flits over Charlie's pale features as she glances the crowd, but her professionalism returns as she nobly lowers the crown onto the crest of Arthur's hair.

"Lords and Ladies, I give to you… King Arthur of Albion! _Long live the King_!"

A shudder-shiver grips at Arthur's spine, a cold seeping in as his heart races. It's not real. It's not _right_. But what he sees behind his eyelids is the draped red fabric, the gold sigils in the citadel's great hall, and when his people— _his_ _people_ applauding and beaming.

As the chanting goes on, increasing, Arthur's chest tightens. He can't tell if he's rejoicing, or beginning to panic, needing to get off from this stage as soon as possible.

Arthur opens his eyes and looks up at Charlie, rising back on his feet with their hands grasping.

"You alright?" she whispers, eyeing him.

"Yes," he lies, keeping hold to one of her hands and facing the crowd. "A crown suits you."

She wrinkles her nose adorably, preening under the attention. "Doesn't it?"

*

She doesn't need to tell him twice. Merlin loses sight of Arthur somewhere near the crowd gathered within the tournament arena.

He lifts on the toes of his buckled boots, pushing his hands down flat on the wood fence.

Gilda notices him scanning his eyes towards the stage, and nudges him again, this time gesturing with a finger. Arthur already on his way up the low-level stage, taking his place beside Charlie.

Something in the way he holds his shoulders tightly to himself reads confusion, and when Merlin sees Charlie moving her mouth, he holds down a bark of amused laughter. Merlin wonders vaguely how much of the current time Arthur could be educated on, popular culture and American language usage, if he spent an hour alone with her.

The gold crown in Charlie's hands looks nothing equal to anything to Camelot's time.

It's stout in height and lined with maroon-colored velvet, arranged with large, imitation blue and green and red gems. On Arthur's head, it could have been made of dung for all Merlin cared. Because nothing could mar the true value of what had been Arthur's kingship.

He deserved much more than this.

More than a fake crown under a faked identity to a fake title ceremony, with a Merlin who was less _Merlin_ than he should be, and more pretending desperately to be what he once was.

At the declaration over the speakers from the announcer, Merlin cups his hands around his mouth, chiming in, "Long live the King!" and hearing everyone else follow suit, roaring and clapping loudly from where they stand.

Gilda yells, " _Long live the Queen!_ " grinning to Merlin and he repeats it with her, cold hands stinging with burning warmth from clapping.

Excitement floods out from every person surrounding the crowd, contagious. The emotion buzzing and dancing along the air, invisible.

One of the officials, the one from earlier who displayed the dragon's egg, carries out the clear glass box. They hand it to Arthur.

"Thank you all for attending this year's tournament!"

As soon as the spring-green egg is in sight on stage, Merlin's heart thuds harder in his chest.

All of his instincts scream for him to get it to safety. He races for one of the entrances of the arena, sneaking around the few stragglers watching as their new King and Queen bow to everyone before descending the stage.

*

The egg.

Arthur managed to forget about it thanks to the bemusement of glimpsing Charlie up on stage, for distractions. This is a _real_ dragon egg. Unless Merlin was somehow mistaken, which Arthur severely doubts, an age-old creature he imagined to be eradicated was now being placed in his hands.

Charlie looks unimpressed by it, but says nothing and instead continues to engage with the crowd as Arthur takes the glass container, nodding dumbly.

His eyes linger on the luminous eggshell, fingers clenching their grasp on the box. He _needs_ to get this to Merlin. If not simply so the Dragonlord can take it into his care, but to keep it from Arthur himself.

Dragons were fierce beasts that lived to wreak havoc, and the Great Dragon did nothing to change his opinion. Arthur believed them to be extinct, yet here he is, _holding_ one in his own hands.

Arthur can practically hear Uther's spitting, infuriated words of how they should all be _destroyed_ , and it only makes Arthur want to get the egg to Merlin faster.

With thanks given, Charlie and he both leave as the clapping dies. The few faire-workers on stage with them congratulate before directing them back towards the stairs.

"So… you win a swordfight against a _knight_ and all you get is a lousy glass egg?" Charlie says. "It's like they were trying to clean out the storage tent."

Arthur gives a strained chuckle, his eyes going between her and the box. "I'm sure I'll manage to find a use for it."

"Maybe you can bribe _Leon_ to let you out of your chores," she counters. The sly twinkle in her eye mixed with the dripping tone has him wondering how exactly she knew. Arthur huffs with a long-suffering eye roll. Remembering the bet certainly does not elevate his mood.

"Doubtful. Once he's won, he will hold it over my head for as long as he can."

" _Oh_ , I'm sure."

Arthur motions her to go down the stairs before him, cradling the glass box under his arm as he follows. Charlie peers over her shoulder at him as her feet hit the ground.

"Well, you're the King now, dude. I believe you can tell your boytoy what happens or not. Unless _he's_ in charge in your relationship. Still haven't figured out which one of you to believe."

He halts on the stairs, eyes widening. " _My what?_ "

"Boytoy. _Boyfriend_. Partner. Manservant? I don't know, pick your term."

Her eyes flicker to his arm, right to the grey-blue token tied around his armour.

"Besides," she adds, her tone light and airy and far-too innocent for Arthur to feel at ease as he heads towards the fence. "Umbrellas only block the view from _one_ side."

Arthur is stunned into silence, his lips parting faintly as Charlie winks and quickly make her way towards where Gilda. He allows himself a moment of embarrassed terror, his heart thudding in his chest, but swallows back the heat creeping up his neck.

He adjusts the grip on the egg container, bringing himself back to the present, and Arthur scans the crowd for Merlin.

*

The gathering crowd disperses in small bands, either for the inner arena to greet the other tourney competitors or for the faire-grounds.

Merlin watches from the ground below as Arthur shakes his head, alone but appearing unsettled, and looks around.

Is it really that _shocking_ to Arthur? Winning the tournament? Or is it just sinking in?

He whistles, a short and piercing note, finally getting Arthur's attention. A bright grin flashes up to the other man.

 _You did it,_ Merlin finds himself mouthing, a bit too far for Arthur to hear him properly.

The glass box in Arthur's hands slowly lowers down to be cradled in Merlin's outstretched hands. Merlin draws it to his chest and he almost staggers back, not from the weight, not from any physical reaction to untouched magic, but from the immediate jolt of _relief_.

When the egg is finally out of his reach, Arthur sucks in a deep breath.

His task is done and now it's Merlin's duty. Even if Arthur's involvement is far from over. For now, he allows himself to not think about it and instead focus on unhooking the straps of his armour.

They head for the fenced off portion of the grassy arena, matching strides. Merlin wants to be _far_ from any strangers, any curious eyes, now that he has the dragon's egg in his possession.

"Thank you," he speaks up, glancing at Arthur removing the armour and the mail on his own. " _Really_." The sincerity practically radiating off of him.

"You're welcome."

"I'll wait here, while you—" Merlin says, tilting his chin to the borrowed equipment, plus sword.

"Yes, alright." As he goes, a sweep of exhaustion rolls through Arthur. He smiles to himself.

He's tired, physically, and that is all for the time being. Arthur relishes in the ache of strained muscle, the sting that travels up his neck whenever his shoulder moves, because it would go away. Give it time, two days at the most, and Arthur would be fine. The idea is relaxing.

Merlin leans slowly back to the fence, as Arthur vanishes to the competitor's tent. His hands on the clear, glass box.

They have to get the egg home, safely. And Arthur, as well.

Perhaps then…

_("There was a mark there, I saw. Three broad lines running in the same direction. Almost reminded me of… I dunno, a Celtic symbol, probably.")_

Merlin's jaw tightens. God help them all.

He kneels down, shouldering off his bag and opening up the drawstring, hoping the case fits in his bag.

His mind wanders a little, disconnected from what his hands are doing, before Merlin notices a pair of legs in front of him. "That didn't take you long," he says, and then hesitates when it registers that the legs were covered in raggy denim, not costume trousers.

The rage-deep voice is not Arthur.

" _Cocksucker_ —"

The next realization is something particularly _hard_ struck him across Merlin's left cheek.

It's the shock of a sudden impact, his face snapping away and his head reeling back onto the wet grass. Merlin's vision spins a few heart-pounding seconds behind his eyelids.

Gentle hands ease him upright when Merlin reopens his eyes. Gilda absently brushes a hand over the top of his head before grasping his shoulders.

"Leon? _Leon_ , are you okay?" she asks, voice frantic.

"Fucker got away," Charlie swears loudly, breathing hard. Her tiara is skewed on her head like she has gotten into a violent exchange, her pale face livid and rosy.

" _Egg_ …" he groans, jerking forward, even with Gilda holding onto him.

"Still here, dude." Charlie gestures with the tip of her shoe to his lumpy bag. "I grabbed him by collar before he could try it— and where the _HELL_ is security around here?"

Despite the bone-sharp ache to Merlin's face, he aims a silent, thankful look to her before slumping against Gilda's knees.

He needs a moment, just one, to shut away everyone else and collect his bearings. As heartening as it is to have Charlie feel all the resentment and anger he doesn't have, and the willow-slender fingers purposefully stroking his hair, as if seeking to in some way comfort him.

Like Gwen comforted him, sweet and good-hearted Gwen, who embraced him the morning Gaius passed in his sleep.

She rocked Merlin on the floor of the workshop, without her guards or Camelot's knights present, or the anxious flutter of her handmaidens beyond the doors. Without her levy of royal jewelry, or the symbol of her crimson, brocaded gown. Gwen embraced him, dark ringlets unpinned.

The soft shift of her old flowery, lavender dress to his cheek. Her lips pressed to the shell of Merlin's ear, murmuring the assurances to steady him as noisy, whimpering sobs racked him, his arms latched tightly around her as her hands rubbed his back.

And Gwen would always be there for him, as time went on, as each of their friends met their inevitable fates.

He sat with her in her chambers that starless night, forehead nuzzling to her age-wrinkled hand, grinning through unshed tears. Thanking her for all she had done for Arthur's dreams for the kingdom, for all she had done for Arthur and for Merlin himself.

Being the friend Merlin never thought he deserved, a loving and tender sister, a loving wife and a true queen.

His eyelids quiver, and Merlin forces down the onslaught of memories, and the faintest sting to his closed eyes.

Tears aren't enough to awaken ghosts. Camelot or Albion, or even Guinevere.

He _needs_ … a moment.

*

There are only a few stragglers left returning their equipment, and Arthur takes their praise with quiet, polite composure. By then, it's getting late.

He twists himself and stretches his arms. Yes, this feels much better. It seems only a couple days since he last wore armour, but Arthur expects some _thousand_ years would tire him out.

What he doesn't expect is Merlin laying on the ground with Gilda and Charlie surrounding him.

Arthur halts outside the tent, expression fading to confusion. The wristguard on Arthur's wrist feels far too heavy against his skin.

Has the other magic user come?

After years of worrying over Merlin, knowing when he's disoriented is a skill Arthur mastered.

" _What's going on?_ " Arthur demands, running over, his tone brisk.

He looks over the girls, noting the frustration and barely concealed anger on Charlie's face before he comes down to a crouch next to Merlin.

Gilda's eyes steady on Arthur, calculating how exactly he's going to react, but her demeanor gentle.

"Someone…" Gilda begins, fading off. Her tone bitter as she rests a hand to Merlin's head, fingers smoothing dark curls. And he feels the overwhelming urge to do it himself. "We were over there talking when we saw it happen. Bloody kicked him back as hard as he could, seemed like."

 _What_?

He's back on edge within an instant. Arthur couldn't have been gone for no more than ten minutes, if that, and _this_ happens.

His blue eyes fix on Charlie, Arthur's face beginning to mirror her anger. "Who? What did they look like? Is he still here?"

"No idea."

Time seems to have slipped out of reach, between being struck, and where Merlin leans against Gilda's knees.

But as soon as he hears Arthur's voice, Merlin's eyes fly open.

A sharp inhale of breath and then a hiss passes out of his lips as the bruising muscles in his face throbs. The pain would not last; it's there with him all the same, threading like a convulsing heartbeat.

This isn't supposed to have happened, none of this. (Then again, when did the turnings of the universe favour what Merlin _wanted_?)

(It _didn't_.)

He and Arthur are supposed to celebrate their victories, to join their new-found friends at this rubbish faire with smiling, joyous faces and warmth in their hearts, though it _still_ feels so untried to Merlin in these late centuries. Arthur's supposed to stand straight and tall, with the pride of his accomplishments, smiling biggest out of all of them—not lowered to Merlin's level, to the rain-damp mud and wounded dignity.

Not with Arthur's blue eyes so gentle on him, his concern wordless.

It clenches at Merlin, that self-loathing; it tickles sour and disgusting at the back of his throat with a weak taste of his own bile.

It isn't Merlin that needs worrying about, or coddling.

They should be _leaving_. The dragon's egg is Merlin's, and no one else's but his. That responsibility hovers over him like the name of his dead father, and it's clearer now. Something as petty as physical violence isn't about to deter Merlin from the path he's destined to take.

A righteous, cold fury warps beyond Arthur's outer expression. He should be thinking without being clouded.

But says nothing as Charlie whacks her fists down at her sides.

"If he knows what's good for him," she growls out, "his ass will be long gone before I find him and—"

"Charlie, this isn't helping," Gilda says up to her, sternly. The redhead huffs, giving Arthur a pointed stare and crossing her arms rigidly. Gilda lets out a low gasp as Merlin starts to lift himself up out of the small, grassy patch of watery mud. She presses on one of his shoulders.

"No, Leon, _please_ sit. I don't think you should…"

His magic longs to physically move her hand, to throw her off and allow it to aid him back on his feet.

"M'fine, swear I am," he mumbles out, head tilted down from everyone's view, legs shifting.

"Yeah, _real fine_. The guy friggin' trashed you, man." The blunt sarcasm in Charlie's tone is unmistakable but Merlin guesses that Gilda hushed her up because no more is said.

It was getting harder to talk with a swollen jaw, anyway.

Merlin wipes the dark ooze of blood from the corner of his mouth, leaving a long smear to the back of his hand. Panting out his open mouth, he reaches over and drags his bag back to him. Reaching out again and grasping at Arthur's wrist, attempting to heave up, not looking him in the eye before.

But Merlin does now, makes sure that Arthur can see the glare of determination in dark blues.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I wanted to take time to leave some thoughts about where the last chapter left us. The subject of homophobia/queerphobia is an incredibly serious one. I am at the point in my life where I can acknowledge I've been physically assaulted because of that hate and fear, and that I can work through my feelings about it. Merlin's experience and mine aren't the exact same thing, it's not - I promise I'm not using him as my mouthpiece (at least not about this, aha). But I did wanna open up to you guys about this, and hear what you had to say if you had concerns, so thank you for listening and thank you for reading. I'll get another update going by next week for sure!


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a big chapter this time, eeee! It still touches on homophobia/queerphobia so there's that **warning**. WHO IS EXCITED ABOUT THE EGG? OR ABOUT AN UPDATE IN GENERAL? Ahaha. Thank you guys again for reading! :) ♥
> 
> I'd like to thank my newest beta [veritably_mad](http://archiveofourown.org/users/veritably_mad/pseuds/veritably_mad/) for helping me out last minute and everyone who has supported me so far. As well as my Britpick [ememmyem](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ememmyem/pseuds/ememmyem) who saved my neck. Half of this fic wouldn't exist without [marlena_darling](http://archiveofourown.org/users/marlena_darling/pseuds/marlena_darling) and I wanna say thank you for taking this journey with me and you've been a best friend to me. I love you lots and this is ours.

*

There's a flush of anger bright in Arthur's chest. _This_ is what he had been concerned about.

This is exactly why he hesitated before, until Merlin provided them shelter. Until he believed they were safe. But, of course they weren't; it was never that simple, was it?

Even Charlie admitted that she _saw_ them earlier, and surely, she had not been the only one. Merlin said it was better in this age, but that didn't mean everyone completely _accepted_.

A voice in the back of his mind reminds Arthur with a chilling tone that it could have been much worse in his time. That even Camelot, as wondrous and great a kingdom, did not protect against such acts. Arthur pushes the voice back.

He shouldn't have taken the risk. No matter how careless he felt at the time. Arthur had set Merlin up for this, and the realisation settles upon him like thundering gust of wind.

No one treats Merlin like this and _gets away with it_.

If he knows anything about Merlin, it's this man can be impossibly stubborn. When the blood smears across Merlin's lips, Arthur decides he's had _enough_.

Merlin is not about to be _this_ stubborn. Arthur understands now there are very little limitations on him, that Merlin will heal, but for now? For now, Arthur is going to make him slow down. Merlin is always moving, refusing to do anything less. But when Arthur can barely focus around the urge to get up and track this man down, his companion treats the attack like a mere _accident_.

He opens his mouth, prepared to command Merlin to sit back down before he falls over, but all words lodge in the back of his throat when a feeble hand clasps tightly around his wrist.

The words low, but the meaning undeniable. Merlin clutches onto the bag like his life depends on it, the egg still secure inside. For a moment, Arthur's stomach churns. He's more worried about the _dragon_. Merlin has been assaulted, and there's _blood_ , but all that matters was the _damned_ egg.

Arthur's feelings of respect and irritation do battle with each other.

"We should go," Merlin says, whispery.

" _Merlin_ …"

Looking the other man over, Arthur groans and pushes himself back to his feet, the knees of his trousers pressing to his skin with damp mud pasting it. He covers Merlin's hand, and Arthur carefully hauls Merlin to his feet.

"I think it would be best if I returned him home," he announces. Gilda risen to her feet along with them, her hands grasping the dirtied fabric of her dress as if forcing herself to give the responsibility of comforting touches to Arthur.

"Are you sure?" she says.

Arthur nods.

"Yes," he replies, eyes softening. "Thank you."

"You have our numbers. Call us if you need _anything_."

"And if we see him, I'll deliver a message from you," Charlie pipes up, staring at Arthur with a menacing grin. "And make sure his ass is grass."

*

Merlin feels a little sense of relief to be able to climb on his feet, and out of the rain-damp mud. The weather, really, is too damn cold for this.

It's humiliating enough to be knocked on his arse by some bigoted tosspot, but to have an audience is… somewhat more undesirable. It brings more problems. It leads to people getting angry on his behalf, if they care at all about him… people like Arthur.

When Arthur speaks Merlin's name, low, he understands how deep the emotion goes, tangled with a sense of disbelief and reluctance.

Merlin lets himself be heaved up, ground softened under his feet, and thankful his legs are not visibly shaking, questionable under his weight at first. Arthur's other hand not grasping Merlin's hovers anxiously over one of warlock's shoulders.

As much as Merlin appreciates it, he _can_ very well stand on his own.

Gilda's hand touches the center of Merlin's back, seconds-long and encouraging, as she nods to a frowning Arthur talking about home.

Yes. That's exactly what they need to do now. _Leave_.

His bag is impossibly heavy on Merlin's left arm, heavier than he remembers before. Merlin lifts it up wordlessly, cradling it with both hands as he frees himself from the restraint of Arthur's hand.

The egg has to leave safely with them—it circles Merlin's thoughts, stubbornly.

Kilgharrah once begged Merlin to call a dragon's egg, and even if Merlin would have foreseen the consequences of Aithusa… he would have _tried_ to have changed it. To not have let Morgana control her.

But not have refused Kilgharrah's plea.

A true Dragonlord accepted duty, and fiercely protected his kin. Merlin would not fail this egg, in the name of his blood-line.

Neither of the girls move to hug or shake hands, perhaps thinking he needs the space to himself (with the exception of Arthur's presence, close enough to get a faint impression of that soul-light he carries).

The docile look in Gilda's eyes confesses to sympathy, and Merlin swallows down gratitude as well as a contrary sense of irritation towards it.

Charlie's voice and her tiny smirk indicate a cruel spitefulness.

It isn't very hard to see that she's eager for the opportunity to face Merlin's attacker. He can't dictate her actions or her decisions, but in truth… that's not what Merlin wants. Violence does not negate violence. But Merlin is feeling less than talkative at that moment, and more sluggish, moving away and turning as everyone parts ways.

The sluggish reaction continues, muddling over his thoughts and awareness as the ropes and cords of coloured tattered flags and ribbons disappear gradually from view, in favour of the park's dirt path.

Violence is a _constant_ in this world, and it comes in so many forms. Centuries of bloodshed, of wars and politics, victimization and discrimination.

Merlin can't say he wasn't startled himself by what happened, when it had so suddenly and from nowhere, but in a way it had been expected. And, no, Arthur shouldn't blame himself as he likely is. Or blame Merlin. The world as it is now and its newest age isn't full of hatred.

There's more light than hate, he always believed in this, ever since his youth; there was far more goodness in a human heart.

It's just unfortunate when hate outweighs the good.

On the bus, Merlin's eyes trace over the flaking, dark smear of blood on the back of his hand.

He quietly rubs it on his trousers to no avail. A younger child, another seat up, stares openly before his father gruffly calls his attention back and forces the child back in his seat.

He and Arthur are, admittedly, quite a sight. Not because of the costumes on them, as several other of the bus occupants are dressed up from the faire, but the _state_ of their trousers. The obvious, caked mud around their knees and to the bottom of Merlin's trousers. The ruined boots.

Merlin guesses he has a glare of dark bruising to the side of his face, because of his swelling jaw.

It's not as if it matters.

Merlin's jaw, along with the rest of his face, would heal completely in another hour or so. His immortality would guarantee this, he considers with a degree of bitterness.

Eye gouged out by an enemy soldier? _Reappear the next day._

Beheaded? _Walking and talking by afternoon tea._

Gulped down a handful of toxic substances to experiment? _See them again within minutes._

Cut open with organs spilling loose and wet between arms? _Full recovery._

To be human is to experience death, one day. And Merlin had many an opportunity for this, over and over, and over, and again.

Maybe, _maybe_ that one day, there would come a time. For a permanent mark to him. Something that proved… he wasn't…

The bus jerks to a rather abrupt stop, quaking beneath his feet. His eyes meet Arthur's for the briefest of moments, lips parted.

Town. They were back in town.

A soft exhale passes Merlin's lips, as he stands impassively with his companion. He remembers less about the trip back into the woods, only that Arthur still has his crown with him. That the egg is _heavy_ in Merlin's careful hands. That they haven't spoken to each other yet.

But… god, he could nearly _feel_ it. How badly Arthur wants to.

That wickedly laden silence follows them inside, as Merlin slips off his buckled boots near the mat and crouches near the fireplace. The hearth has gone dark, any embers left smoking.

He digs the clear glass case out of his bag, opening the lid.

The spring green egg cradles gently from Merlin's hands, setting inside the hearth.

Merlin ignores the sound of the front door shutting loudly, eyes flashing gold, and backs his hands out as flames burst hot and plentiful over the lump of firewood and creep over the egg. Merlin's jaw stings tender as he mutters, finally speaking, "It will need to be incubated until nightfall."

*

The desire to leave had been palpable. They could all feel it practically radiated from Merlin.

Once he was off the ground and standing on his own, Merlin tugged himself away.

The goodbyes dampened by the mood. When they turned to leave, Arthur didn't look back at the pairs of concerned eyes watching them.

His attention split between eyeing anyone that dared come too close to them, and staring sideways at Merlin. The other man had withdrawn. The cheerful and proud Merlin from before had been sucked away.

It stayed that way as they passed the fluttering, colourful banners, the quiet looming out the music and laughter of passing faire-goers. The bus just as quiet.

Arthur's jaw clenches, his fingers tightening around the crown in his lap.

Merlin could have defended himself. He could have used magic, knocked the man back, or at least kept him busy enough until Arthur returned. He wouldn't have been so distracted if it wasn't for _the egg_. Arthur doesn't need to look over to know that Merlin still clutches the bag as if it is the sole object he can't bear to lose.

So far, it's proved to be nothing but _trouble_ , and Arthur certainly doubts it would be much better if it hatches.

The thought makes his fingers twitch. The crown in Arthur's grasp sounds _hollow_ in his grip.

Arthur looks away from the window and instead stares down at the golden ornament. He hasn't been given much of a chance to look at it before, but now that he can… an empty ache builds in his stomach. While firm, it's _soft_ compared to the strength of _real_ gold worn by him and his father.

A finger taps lightly against the embroidered gems and a quiet clink answers. The noise reminding him of the swords back in the costume shoppe.

A _fake_. Arthur stares down.

A fake crown, for a fake king.

When the bus comes to an abrupt stop, Arthur snaps himself out of it in time to brace the seat in front of him with his foot. His head turns when he catches movement from Merlin. He meets blue eyes, darker and dazed, pale lips parted, but Arthur says nothing. His irritation grows as he follows Merlin off the bus and towards the cottage.

Arthur keeps staring down, towards the ground, so he's not tempted. Not to look at his friend. No longer gaze at the swollen jaw, the bruising colour flushed to Merlin's skin. Most of all, so Arthur doesn't have to see the vacant expression in Merlin's eyes.

He hadn't realised his pace slowing as well until he hears the creak of a door opening in front of him, and Arthur sees the cottage door open and Merlin disappear inside.

For a moment, he remains where he is outside.

Merlin cooped himself up in here for _god knows how long_ , and Arthur caught glimpses of the man he became during that time, even if Merlin tries to hide it. _Broken and alone._

Arthur finally enters, roughly shutting the door behind him as he kicks off his unlaced boots.

"Brilliant," he replies to Merlin's observation. _Needs to be incubated._ "And what do we do now, then? Let the thing warm up and watch it hatch like a bloody bird? Or are you going to sit there like a statue until the damn thing even gives a _sign_ of being alive?"

His voice rigid and agitated, but Arthur's eyes make it obvious he's trying to keep it under control.

"What just _happened_ , Merlin?"

*

Merlin was silently resigned to being watched over by his friend, like Arthur were a hawk rather than a person. He hadn't much of a choice.

From the faire-grounds to bus stop, feet shuffling him ahead, Merlin felt those familiar, blue eyes pinned on him, intent. Vigilant. Guarded with hindered emotion.

A kind of look an adult might give an injured child.

But that is the thing. He isn't _powerless_ , nor a babe.

If Merlin had not been caught off-guard, the consequences to his attacker might have been severe. If purely used on instinct, his sorcery might ripped that man to shreds, ligament by ligament, peeling his fragile body apart like vegetable layers.

Merlin learned _control_ to some degree, and learned acceptance. He had to pick his battles.

This one is not worth it. (Not in the grand scheme of what narrow passageway Fate threw him down.)

Arthur has no such qualms, or worries, and Merlin witnesses it struggling back from appearing on his expression now, this dogged inquiry— _why_? Why hadn't Merlin fought back?

Being so close to the fireplace allows the flames to sink their consoling heat into Merlin's skin, ease the twist in his gut a little, bring some natural colour back to his face. (Not that his face needs more hue to it.) The ache begins to fade from Merlin's jaw and he reaches up, gently stroking his fingers over it.

Arthur squeezes the costume-jeweled crown between his hands, almost to the point of crushing it

 _A statue_ , Arthur accuses him of being.

That has to be one of the more accurate, and yet ridiculous, insults Merlin heard. The very word makes him want to tilt his head back and _laugh_. Laugh until his belly aches as terrible as the bruises on his face, until he collapses down.

One of those questions stick out to Merlin, pushing away a near-hysteric mirth and instead filling him with a real sense of dread.

To the warlock's knowledge, dragon eggs could only live up to nine hundred years without incubation or being called. He has no idea how long this egg had been in existence, let alone for certain who had been keeping it in their care or even if— _She_ —had been—

"It's _alive_ ," Merlin grinds out, teeth clenched with a new sharp pain up a jaw muscle. God help him, it _has_ to be. "The flames will do their work."

He steadies himself back to his feet, loathing the sensation of the plastered mud on his clothes.

"Cracks will appear on the shell of the egg when it's ready and they'll help the process when the dragon is called forth."

Arthur's eyes, he feels them again. Drilling into him. Wanting answers. Merlin's own eyes glances off, leveling with summery-blue. _They used to be so much brighter than this._

A twinge of regret erupts in Merlin's throat.

Despite this, he casts Arthur a sour ' _what do you want me to say to that?_ ' look, Merlin's pale, long fingers going for his belt and frisking it open. He ignores the visible shaking to them, how his throat feels as if it closes up around a hard rock lodged inside.

Merlin needs to get _out_ of these blasted clothes, damn it all. They aren't _him_ to begin with.

"Some bloke probably wanted the egg was all, said some names—"

It's all a farce.

Camelot and Albion are _gone_ , along with those dreams. Swept away by the decay of time.

They were all _dead_.

Everyone.

Everyone he and Arthur known, and _cherished_ —

"I don't really know," Merlin's voice chokes out. "I didn't exactly ask—"

Arthur listens in confusion as Merlin says his attacker wanted the _egg_. If he wanted it, he would have taken it. No one knew of its importance besides them, and perhaps the other sorcerer who left it behind. He's sure the damage would have been more on Merlin if this had been truth.

It _wasn't_ about the egg, but that is all the other could see.

The dragon egg _is important_. Arthur could pretend to be an ignorant, selfish fool, but he acknowledges this as fact. Dragons were supposed to be extinct, even in Camelot's age. The fact that one mysteriously appeared now of all times is astounding, and something they cannot ignore. But when it has this sort of effect on Merlin?

Merlin shakes, if the clacking of his belt is any indication. He's _breaking_ again.

The frustration in Arthur's expression falls away, a throb settling in his chest.

"Merlin." He finds himself stepping forward, dropping the fake crown, voice quieter and lacking the bite from before. Arthur repeats himself. " _Merlin_."

The cottage thrives now with a renewed sense of heat, against the cold rainstorm that afternoon. The magical properties of the hearth's fire spread the cozy heat, and Merlin even fathoms a guess that his bedroom is rightfully and oddly toasty.

He can't get his hands at his belt to _stop_ trembling. Nor the slow, burning prickle behind his eyes to just shove off.

Merlin's lips press together, smudging the dot of dark blood there. More frustrated noises escapes him. Low enough to be misread as a whimper, unless he misreads it himself.

Arthur doesn't need to say it, not aloud, not even a single breath.

The dragon egg is the least of his concerns; it's to be expected. If Merlin wasn't obviously in the way, Arthur may have even entertained the thought of _ridding_ it.

A lurch of queasiness, slimy and worming up his esophagus, and Merlin sucks in a bit of fresh air before gulping it down.

Arthur _wouldn't_. He understands what it means to Merlin, having that living embodiment of his kin so close to him. Arthur is a warrior, and he has slain many lives, but he wouldn't senselessly murder this innocent creature. That had not done wrong, that had not even been given a _chance_ to prove it. Not the man and king that Merlin had… _admired_.

Footsteps approach him, accompanied by the soft, repeated murmur of his name. Merlin shakes his head lightly, face lowered away as his thick, brown belt finally loosens.

He doesn't need coddling. _Doesn't_ —

Merlin doesn't notice the audible hitches in his own breathing until Arthur's large hands clasp his shoulders, bringing him back a warm, grounding sense of realisation. To the hot, real slide of several tears trickling wet against the corner of his mouth.

Merlin doesn't lift his hand, as he might have liked, imagining it would do no good.

Blood could not be erased from his skin. It tacked, it _stayed_. So why would his tears, bitter and unimportant, be any different now…?

His arms remain limp when the embrace surrounds him, the odour of the park's greenery and of sweat clinging to Arthur's clothing. Merlin considers pulling away from it, but it fractures in strength, dulling as the nearly-soft whisper of " _you're alright_ " sounds in Merlin's ear.

(Is he?)

The trembling does not release its grip on him completely. He feels it more prominently with Arthur's chest weighing against his, where strongly muscled arms hook around Merlin's back.

 _Yes_ , he is.

Like this, with Arthur, Merlin feels the tension and anxiety stringing him up start to slip, unravel, much like a too-thick, heavy cloak.

Merlin's hands inch out, gently holding onto Arthur's hips as he rests his forehead on the shoulder in front of him, pressing there.

He wants to comment about the kindhearted nature of this, a chaff or tease or sincere gratefulness… but the hard rock lodges still unforgiving in his throat. Merlin breathes through it.

Perhaps he would try again after a few minutes.

*

There's no reaction. Merlin is motionless in his arms, trembling faintly. Like he's steel, vibrations reverberating through him from impact.

Arthur's no stranger to injury, or emotional compromise, but seeing Merlin like this… it's one of the few moments he truly feels helpless.

When Gaius had gone missing and Merlin was left in self-doubt, Arthur hadn't comforted him. He believed the worst of Gaius, done nothing to find him. It plagued his nights more than Arthur admits after discovering he was wrong.

Arthur won't pretend he doesn't notice how the other man feels now, the pattern of Merlin's irregular breathing.

There's no need for words. Not at the moment, at least. Instead Arthur secures his hold, sliding a hand down Merlin's spine. Arthur can't wipe the tears away, or the remaining blood at this time, nor heal the bruises. But he wants to.

Arthur relaxes, turning his head as he turns to press his lips carefully to Merlin's hair.

They both smell like the outdoors and rain on the grass. Merlin's the noise of a beating heart.

Never had this been his role when it came to Merlin. Arthur had been a comforting shoulder for Morgana for so many of their early years, and for Guinevere as their relationship blossomed.

He knew how to handle gentle touches, cradle them in a way that was not overbearing. But with Merlin, this is a new aspect. Their relationship had been the difference of their station, rough and defiant, and when it didn't satisfy them, filled with solemn conversation.

He wishes to know this helps—not that he minds, not at all.

Arthur thinks he enjoys this, being able to hold Merlin to him in his arms, to be a shield from this world that _wore_ Merlin out.

*

The muscles on Merlin's face are healing quickly, but his cheek is still far too tender to press against Arthur's shoulder.

Merlin lets his eyes slip shut, the tears shed and gone. He feels the reassurance and slight pressure of Arthur's palm carefully stroking along his back.

How does someone like… _like Merlin_ deserve this?

What had he done in those passing eras—what amount of _good_ , what honor and duty had he shown to the higher gods and to his destiny—to have Arthur return to him, safe and whole? To be a source of warmth and comfort; his king's _acceptance_ , his undivided attention, concern, and the sweet remembrance of Arthur's taste in his mouth.

Merlin had not shed any less blood than Camelot's era, had not repented for any sins. He had not dismissed thoughts of self-harm or taking to drink or filling his lungs with poisonous fumes, in favour of cleansing.

 _Why_ had Arthur come back now?

The thought continuously nettles at him, unacknowledged and buried away.

The Lady of the Lake… gave the country back its true ruler, in a time that "Albion" would require it.

But what _rot_ does that mean?

Silence keeps the room company, along with the crackles of the firewood, and Merlin is thankful for it as he collects his wits again. Arthur's chest keeps him in place, his breaths calming his own from bordering on gasping, slowing them to match an easy rhythm.

Arthur's lips graze his hairline, almost tickling, and Merlin doesn't fight the small quirk of his mouth at the benevolent sensation.

This wouldn't last. Arthur is going to get the truth from him, one way or another. There's no point in delaying it.

Merlin shifts his forehead, turning his head a little.

"It wasn't the egg," he mumbles, "At least that's not what I suspect."

He feels a stiffness growing in Arthur's stance and Merlin's fingers consciously squeeze the hips in his hold, as if to ask him to deny it.

"There was something he said to me before I fell over… meant to be very hateful." Merlin said, words picked deliberately, "And he likely said it because… he knew you and I were close. Closer than I'd imagine he was comfortable with.

"I don't care what that prick had seen." Merlin lifts his head up, staring into Arthur's eyes with a razor-sharp, determined glint to his own. "I don't regret anything, Arthur. I'm not living a life where I have to be ashamed of how I feel, or being afraid to kiss you in front of everyone, or under a _bloody_ umbrella, because I'm not."

The guilt, the realisation from earlier instantly is in the front of Arthur's mind once again. His throat constricts. He almost doesn't want to look at him. Not at Merlin's bruises—not at the reminder of Arthur's failure to _protect_ him.

He does anyway, and his fury rises up. Merlin is _defending_ it.

"This age is _better_ about two blokes or Charlie and Gilda than our time, or even thirty years ago. No one is inherently cruel or evil; it's the same as magic. It's your decisions that reveal who you are."

The life Merlin describes seems impossible, but that doesn't mean Arthur wants it any _less_.

He's ready to simply agree and move on, but it's the comparison to magic that made him pause. Could something like that be the _same_?

Now that's the _impossible_ bit. Magic is still…

Arthur has to put it out of his mind. _Now_.

*

If this becomes a regular habit, a physicality to this sense of meaningful closeness between them, Merlin recognises it and also doubts it in some ways.

Not for the lack of wanting, definitely not, but in the matter that it's unusual for them.

Unusual for Arthur, he assumes, in the sheer knowledge that it has only been a few days since his unexpected arrival from Avalon.

Merlin does not know yet how Arthur views all of this entirely, how far his confusion goes. How strange an era and this version of Merlin is. Only that his king's mind has to be trapped still with the currents of Camelot's brighter memories, of the physical affection (when allowed to being displayed) between the pair of them being less obvious, and more taunting, lighthearted amusement.

And it's unusual for Merlin as well, having those same memories—though mellowed, jaded—understanding it's new for the other man, but less bemused on why this change is better.

All those years, all those secrets. His sorcery, most importantly, and then the useless, burning pining that grew for an untouchable figure.

This is an opportunity. To face all those big and little secrets, to let them come to light and show Arthur he is _unashamed_.

Arthur's arms loosen their hold around Merlin, but do not leave him, tan fingers digging into the mud-crusted fabric of his jacket. Merlin doesn't know how to convey a 'thank you' without breaking the fragility of the moment, and settles for an affectionate, quiet headbutt to the same shoulder he rests his forehead upon, lips curling up.

Merlin's hands slide up from Arthur's hips, gentler against his sides, as he considers the grave frown right back at him. The narrowed quality of blue hues.

No, he knew Arthur would not take well to this information. Likely did not see the situation as Merlin had.

All Arthur knows is that his friend had been struck down because of _him_ , because they had been careless. Shown some ridiculous form of _weakness_ to others and Merlin had been vulnerable.

It's so absurdly old-fashioned and so much like _Arthur_ of the feudal age that Merlin fights down another hysterical urge to laugh. He might need to bite down on his fist, if it surged out wildly from him, forcing the breath out of him and crumpling him to his knees.

This is not the proof of a more accepting century Merlin wanted Arthur to witness. Not this, or the blood-dark tint to the side of Merlin's face, though he hopes by now it's faded.

When the corner of Arthur's mouth quirks, to a tiny smirk, Merlin feels a part of himself tremour. Inside him, clawing softly. He wants to give into the compulsion sweetly whispering to him, to kiss Arthur, and etch him to his own skin. Pull the other man against him once more and kiss him properly, until Arthur is damn well _convinced_ there isn't an inch of fear and uncertainty hollowing Merlin's very marrow about this, about whatever they are building up.

Merlin swallows, finding it easier with the lump in his throat gone.

"Is it a decision of yours to be an overzealous git?" Arthur says.

The other man snorts loudly, lowering his hands back to his sides.

"No more than it's yours to be a pompous, arrogant cabbagehead," he remarks, eyeing Arthur and wrinkling his nose playfully. "That really needs a shower. You smell like… well, you _smell_ is the important bit."

Merlin manages to untangle himself, going back for his belt, tossing it aside, and then for the lacing of his ruined breeches, pulling them apart. He heads for the corridor, to his bedroom, and shouts back, "I'm going to change! I'll leave you some clothes on the bed!"

He doesn't glance back, but keeps his ears alert for any returned calls from Arthur.

Merlin pulls open some drawers, trying to distract himself, and jolts in place, magic flaring within him as a warning, as something small and pleasantly warm nuzzles his ankle. Merlin chuckles breathless, as the kitten mewls.

"Gaius, blimey," he says, reaching down a moment to scratch a gold ear. "Nearly gave me a fright. Are you hungry?"

A tail twitch is Merlin's answer as Gaius pads away, making himself cozy on the bed-linens and staring ahead, belly up.

"Maybe later then."

The black/blue/white-striped jumper catches Merlin's eye and he yanks it on, without an undershirt, along with a change of pants and denim jeans.

He hears the muffled sounds of a running shower from back in the corridor. Oh, _good_. He'll have to introduce Arthur to the benefits of using men's deodorant on a daily basis as well.

Merlin slings his muddied costume over an arm, marching back towards the parlour, and for the laundry room when he spots his grayish-blue scarf. Neatly folded, still banded and tattered, beside the red, velvet-lined crown on the settee. Arthur must have removed it earlier.

He quietly snatches it up, with a fond smile, adding it to the pile.

Before Merlin takes another step, the fire-lit hearth begins hissing.

*


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT WASN'T A CHOCOLATE EASTER EGG AFTER ALL, GUYS! Ahahah. A real glass egg should have been disappointing. But hey, I wanted to get another chapter even with being miserable on my end. I fell into TMR fandom in coping attempts. No worries about this fic, it has everything ready and I'll get you the next one within another week or so! THERE MUST BE MORE BABY DRAGON. If anyone looks up "Tiamat", you will be a bit spoiled, but I had fun deciding what to use from Babylonian mythology/Mesopotamian religion. :) She's gonna be fun and stir a lot of trouble/emotions. Comments/questions appreciated as always! Ily guys lots! ❤ ❤
> 
> I'd like to thank my newest beta [veritably_mad](http://archiveofourown.org/users/veritably_mad/pseuds/veritably_mad/) for helping me out last minute and everyone who has supported me so far. As well as my Britpick [ememmyem](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ememmyem/pseuds/ememmyem) who saved my neck. Half of this fic wouldn't exist without [marlena_darling](http://archiveofourown.org/users/marlena_darling/pseuds/marlena_darling) and I wanna say thank you for taking this journey with me and you've been a best friend to me. I love you lots and this is ours.

*

He studiously keeps his attention on Merlin's expression. The other man isn't hiding his reaction incredibly well, but Arthur's thoughts remain unvoiced.

There's guilt within him. Panic when Arthur realises for a fact that, yes, he has in a way been the cause for the blood still left on Merlin's lip. Arthur disagrees with him, now understanding that they do have to be careful, but he will not start that argument.

"You're not exactly a rose garden yourself," Arthur says, glaring. The other man smells of dirt and soggy grass, but apparently _he_ is worse off.

(Not that Arthur will complain if he can wash first.)

He stares in disbelief at Merlin, his belt tossed. There's a faint absurdity to Merlin beginning to undress in front of him, when it has been the reverse for so long. But then the other man disappears into his room. Arthur listens for him, hand grasping at the wall.

It hadn't been the dragon working Merlin up. Arthur understands the gravity of what's sitting there, _incubating_ in the flames. And yet, distrust settles in his gut.

Magic can be different, perhaps.

_Dragons?_

They were always dangerous.

Getting himself out of his dirty clothes and into Merlin's bathroom had been a relatively quick process, even after waiting for the water to heat up this time. Arthur quite likes these… _showers_ , how the grime washes off, and it's much easier than hearing Merlin prattle on and complain as he filled up a bath. The water is just on the edge of blistering, but it wipes away the tension curling in his back.

Arthur stares at the discarded clothing items on the floor, before pushing them with his foot towards the hamper. He reaches for a towel, drying himself and tying it round himself. Merlin _said_ he would leave clothes out.

Entering the bedroom, he isn't surprised to see it _empty_.

"Merlin," Arthur calls out. This is _exactly_ why he wanted to sort out where the clothes _went_. He doesn't want to rifle through Merlin's things, _again_. "Where did you put the new clothes?"

When there's no response, Arthur turns his head towards the corridor, walking out, then once again moving towards it in hopes of locating the other man.

"Merlin—!"

*

It's entirely nonsense, really.

How one little hissing sound can imbue such a twinge of maddening fear in Merlin's spine, and yet submerge him completely in a numbing, thickened awareness.

Not many occurrences managed to startle him from his dulled, immortal reverie, or likely made a personal mark; living so long had that effect. A pub bombing somewhere Birmingham, another world leader assassinated, new technology rising and seeking change in the efficiency and modernization of Great Britain. Smaller, familiar things, like the _codswallop_ petrol prices, or so whined the local town's residents who owned motor vehicles.

Or when that old crone, Ms. Cecilia "Cee" Faha, waddled along after him with his baggy, 90-something-year old disguise, stalking him through the aisles of the apothecary. She rattled on about needing a "working" remedy for her arthritic joints and occasionally goosed his rump while on a gumming-rampage.

Small and familiar. His mind swings rapidly between the sudden, dizzying emotions while taking in the sight of the crackle-hissing fire and a single flash-memory. Moments ago.

Arthur's eyes flicking up into an subtle, exasperated roll. Merlin's lips, at the time, invisibly framed around the remark conjured to his thoughts. That Arthur had _never_ properly worked in a garden before, and so how would he _know_?

His chambers knew the aroma of fresh, clipped roses, pleasant and deep, when brought in and arranged in ornate vases from potential suitors and nobles and even Morgana on a good day.

But Arthur's bare hands did not know the hours spent in the richness of earthy soil, with it caked to nail-beds. How the high sun burned at your neck, and that inflamed, sweaty skin was cooled to its surface by the passing breeze. Or the flavor of spice, in the back of your tongue, the invigoration of a fully bloomed garden late in season.

Arthur's hands were not destined nor created for servitude. Therefore, the remark may have been lost on him.

But it didn't mean Merlin couldn't _show_ his king the small, familiar delights to a simpler life lived, while the warlock still could. Whether or not Arthur would soon conceive his purpose for returning, as the prophesied "Once and Future King" of legend, Merlin… bugger it, he wanted him to stay.

Or couldn't let Arthur leave.

Not this time, not for anything. Not even for the mercy of death.

Merlin's name repeats in the parlour, finally piercing the slow crawl of fog, and he never realizes his jaw has gone slack. Merlin's stare has not left the hearth. His ruined, muddied costume-clothes leave his arms, making their descent to crumpling uselessly at his feet.

His knees sink boneless to the floor, in front of steadily increasing, noisy flames. Shouldn't it be until nightfall?

 _Too soon,_ a menacing voice urges. _It's too soon. Dead, it's dead. You failed another whom you love._

It's _ALIVE_.

Merlin grits his teeth against those dark whispers, hunching.

"What's happening?"

"It's ready," he mutters, shooting a look at a furiously confused Arthur standing outside the hallway. Drizzles of shower water trek their journey down the hollow of his golden throat, down Arthur's exposed chest. Merlin's eyebrows furrow, confusion shining back.

Arthur has been in the doorway long enough to know that if he had not repeated Merlin's name, the warlock maybe have not noticed his presence.

The egg is _ready_ to hatch?

Arthur's eyes flick to the fireplace, to where the magical object rests. He expected it to take longer, judging by what Merlin said earlier.

"Why are you still?"

Merlin blinks, realization slapping him upside the head. His features cringe outwardly.

"Um," he adds, eyes averting. "Yeh, sorry. Your clothes are in the bottom drawer. In the… dresser, yeah."

"Right," Arthur responses dryly, moving in a slow half-circle back into Merlin's bedroom to search for clothes. It's quick work changing once he has a dark, worn-fabric shirt in his possession and rest of his clothing.

How _large_ are dragons when they hatch? Arthur can't imagine anything larger than the animal on the bed emerging from that egg, but there's little knowledge other than legends told at feasts and during tutoring sessions.

When Arthur does step out, and Merlin checks that he is alone, another mutter escapes him, " _Ámundae min brád fram ád_."

His hands feel no different, but his magic pulses out. Wrapping protectively around him.

Merlin reaches into the fire. His spindly, pale fingers grasp around the spring green egg, pulling it free.

The front door opens without a command, squeaking in its hinges.

Fading sunlight, shades of yellow and the green from the trees, casting away in favour of the day ending as Merlin glances over them before looking down. The cracks along the gleaming shell prominent to the dragon's egg in his hands, enough to aid it free when—

A quivering breath in Merlin's throat.

No one, sorcerer or mortal, held him in respect as a Dragonlord in so long. He had not called a dragon since… a very long time. Could he be sure that this would work?

Merlin sets the heavy egg as gently as he was able, on the grassy earth, and seeks that link inside himself. Thrums his nerves, conflated with his own, once unbridled magic. That forever heats his bones and his blood. An unbreakable bond between a Dragonlord and his _kin_.

And there it is, jerking at his core, warming him from the inside. Merlin feels his lips wet themselves, before they part. A growling voice, so low and deep that it hurts his vocal chords, erupting out.

" _ **TIAMAT**_."

Merlin's eyelids shudder open, as he shudders bodily at the feeling still tugging at him. His eyes gaze down, wide and clear blue.

Silence fills the air.

 _Please_.

More silence follows, eerie and deafening to Merlin's eardrums. The only thing to break it the jarring thud of his heartbeat.

He can't move, force out a breath. He just wants to be proven _right_.

This one time, _one_ time— damn all the gods and their unrelenting cruelty— Merlin wants to succeed in saving another close to him. He had done so much wrong, either by doing too little or failing, and this can't be the punishment.

He _needs_ to be granted this. Just this one. Some sign he has been forgiven for all of his offenses.

Merlin's socks quickly dampening with whatever rainwater left to the mushy, grass-bristled earth, in his rush forgetting about pulling on shoes. He moves sideways, shoulders tight, turning himself at an angle. In his peripheral vision now, Arthur stands unmoving in the outside doorway. Has not said a word.

Merlin isn't sure if he's reassured by this or troubled.

During all this time with the dragon's egg in their possession, Arthur had been strangely impassive about making an opinion on it, other than calling it a "bloody bird" earlier, and he suspects that it was for Merlin's sake. But the blond man wouldn't be very settled with the thought of being around one of the fiercest creatures on this planet.

Uther _made sure of that_ during his reign as king, warping the minds of his people and even his own son, spreading a harsh and dark fear and the exaggerated lies about the "insatiable evils" of magic itself as well as the creatures and sorcerers who wielded it.

(Who even knew the full extent of this madness, maybe not even Arthur— Merlin didn't particularly desire to understand this brand of irrational hate).

But Merlin had then carried a faith in Arthur, bright and shining, and believed in the world Arthur would have built in time. Faith that Uther's corruption would decay and shrivel into ashes, allowing room for Arthur to make his own mind up about magic.

To Uther's ghostly, enraged face, Merlin called Arthur a better and more worthy king than Uther ever was, syllables grim and soft, and certain in every bit of it.

Yes, it would be immensely difficult to reverse such harmful ideas. And time-consuming. Merlin would require an ocean-sized amount of patience. After all, it was Arthur's entire lifetime to backtrack.

But it's going to be worth it.

Merlin's palm scrubs over his chin, long fingers wiping and hovering over his pursed lips. His no-longer bruised jaw clenches harder in his anticipation.

And the green, crackled egg trembles visibly in the grass.

It splinters apart from the top as loud rustling sounds within. A thin, reddish claw pokes out, so small, and in the same color, scaled nostrils too, flaring as they tentatively sniff the air.

Merlin's shoulders tighten, to keep his body in place as the dam of relief breaks within him, flooding and overwhelming, and those tickles of laughing hysterics as well. He shakes, head to toe, breathless and silent with blue eyes screwing up shut. Merlin's hands instinctively reach out to clamp over his opening mouth, to stifle himself.

He ends up bowed over, stomach burning with the ache of his laughter, before Merlin straightens himself, letting the air back in his lungs with a stretched gasp, eyes opening with a new glitter to them.

Blissfully welcomed by the sight of the rest of the egg in pieces, with just the bottom cradling a very rare and very much _alive_ dragon.

His magic searches out, invisible to any eye, shaping like caressing tendrils and experimentally pushing against the fledgling dragon.

Just as tenderly, the tiniest, warm push answers Merlin.

That alone works a light, clogged-up sob from his throat and Merlin scrubs roughly at his face once more, scrubs away the wetness.

He tilts his face up to cotton-soft, sunset clouds, sending up a wordless ' _thank you_ ' to whomever granted him this, and then glanced to the side at Arthur. Merlin grins with unabashed exhilaration yet its corners reveal how truly exhausted he is from the whirlwind of emotion.

One of the blankets hanging from a washing-line is snatched into Merlin's hands, as his attention focuses back on Tiamat. He may have not had a clue on any of this, to raise her in a domestic setting, or the oncoming dangers looming on the horizon, or _why_ this egg…

Merlin just knows, whatever happens next, there's no turning back right now.

He softly clucks his tongue, ducking his head to meet his eyes with her.

Her round, yellow eyes _luminous_ , exquisite in their colour.

"No harm can come to you now," Merlin whispers to her, hoping she understands so young. "I promise I'm going to take care of you."

As if she does understand this selfless honesty, the fledgling does not attempt to squirm out of the blanket and rumbles something like a deeper, animal purr in Merlin's arms. She sleepily lays her feathered snout against his chest.

The weight is barely anything to him; she seems so _small_ wrapped in the fleece blanket, almost fragile. The membrane of her wings barely as red as most of her body and more translucent and pale.

Warmth courses from inside him, swimming through him as Merlin heads back in, socks ruined, but not giving a damn at the moment.

*

Arthur halts in place, before he has a foot outside.

A bellowing roar echoes around the man kneeling in the grass. Arthur only sees Merlin's hunched form, but he knows his eyes have to be a _molten gold_.

The sound of the roar goes through the trees, like it's feral. Tremors shoot through Arthur's body, his blue eyes widening drastically, body tensing. That can't have been Merlin. Not small, sometimes useless, and positively clumsy Merlin. Not the one he known all those years.

 _No_. This is the _Dragonlord_.

Arthur foggily realises this as silence begins to clear out the vibrations left in the air, and for a moment he wonders about the gap between the two Merlin's.

What happens now? Merlin hasn't moved a muscle—there's hardly a sign that the other man breathes and Arthur weighs the option of going to him. The atmosphere is fragile enough without him. Merlin doesn't even have _shoes_ on. Arthur feels jittery, every ounce of focus on the egg.

For both selfish and genuine reasons, Arthur wishes the egg had never come into their possession.

A dragon egg does not _fall_ into someone's lap. Not even in his era, where Uther taken the initiative to wipe them out—they were no _easy_ task to acquire.

But this had been easy, far too much, and brought a change in Merlin's attention. He depended on this creature hatching. Arthur witnessed that look of determined intent on Merlin's face one time before. Now it's a hazy memory bogged down by the chill of Death's cold hands.

Whether or not he cares to voice it, the egg _has_ to hatch. Arthur is afraid to think of the _consequences_ if it fails to do so.

He's about step forward, to try to pull Merlin out of his desperation when a crackling fills the air.

The top of the egg breaks apart before Arthur's eyes.

Arthur tenses, instinct conflicting with the delayed sense to be _the_ _observer_. His eyes flicker to Merlin, as if willing him to move, to be careful.

_Relief._

The warlock practically shakes with it, his eyes crinkled and glistening as Merlin curls inward. Then he sits up again, a loud breath exhaling that Arthur hears from where he stands.

Arthur can't tell which is more fantastic to watch— the dragon, or the _look_ that allows Merlin to appear younger than he had since his return. The decision is made when Merlin turns, the grin plastered there causing a hitch in his heartbeat that nearly makes Arthur jump.

He's stunning in a way that is barely comprehensible.

What has been hatched is so… _wee_. The fearsome creature Arthur expects; the one with dangerous eyes and power radiating from its every muscle is not there—only a tiny animal maybe the size of Gaius still lounging indoors.

In a way, it distantly reminds Arthur of the baby animals he admired, before his training, before his 's hardly the monster Arthur had in mind.

_You've been tricked by kind appearances before._

Arthur only step aside as Merlin walks past, eyes down on the creature swaddled to Merlin's chest as if it belongs there. He wavers before silently following Merlin, closing the door behind them.

He wants to say anything, but Arthur decides against it for now. His gaze on the other man, on the way Merlin protectively holds the dragon. The way it _is_ swaddled reminds Arthur of a babe.

That's certainly an image to associate with Merlin— caring for a babe, Merlin's very own.

Arthur has no doubt in his mind that Merlin would have been a _good_ father.

*


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The temperature really dropped in my area. I dug out my space heater to rescue me. I envy Merlin and Arthur in this... being all warm... lucky effin' bastards. WE ARE GETTING VERY CLOSE TO HALLOWEEN. MY FAVORITE TIME OF YEAR. EEEEEEEEE. I'm helping mod [merlin_horror](http://merlin-horror.livejournal.com/) this year so I hope some of you joined up or that you will check out this year's entries! :) Any comments/questions on this new update are alwayssss appropriated!
> 
> I'd like to thank my newest beta [veritably_mad](http://archiveofourown.org/users/veritably_mad/pseuds/veritably_mad/) for helping me out last minute and everyone who has supported me so far. As well as my Britpick [ememmyem](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ememmyem/pseuds/ememmyem) who saved my neck. Half of this fic wouldn't exist without [marlena_darling](http://archiveofourown.org/users/marlena_darling/pseuds/marlena_darling) and I wanna say thank you for taking this journey with me and you've been a best friend to me. I love you lots and this is ours.

*

Merlin had not forgotten Arthur at the doorway, and maneuvered around him with a small, appreciative quirk of his mouth. He just couldn't make himself tear his eyes from the sight of her.

The pigment-green blanket gently adjusts in his arms, one of them and a hand supporting the bottom of the bundle in a cradling motion.

She's breathing and warm, even through the fabric. Like a small, wild animal. Heart beating in a soft, even pace, and her magic very new and very weak. Like devout instinct, Merlin's own soaks into hers; because they are kin, his magic is accepted wholly, drawing into her.

A quiver, faint and lightheaded, answers that instinctual decision. Merlin shakes off any further sensation of exhaustion. Not yet.

"That… sound you made," Arthur murmurs, voice low, his eyes flickering from the dragon to stare at Merlin. "Was that what awoke it?"

A growling voice, that rang out through the cover of sunset-painted trees.

The warlock finally breaks his embarrassingly wide-smiling, admiring gaze from the fledgling dragon. Takes in the mortal man in his home.

Blond locks, a shade darker than corn-silk, heavy and damp to Arthur's skull. The blue of his shirt draping over him, loose-fitting enough to mask any hard lines of his muscles, nearly indigo in the firelight.

Arthur's expression reads a mild struggle, somewhere between uneasiness and awe, but Merlin does not feel offense in its nature. This is the first time, he's sure, that his king has ever witnessed such a tremendous event, in seeing the birth of a living dragon.

"I called her," Merlin admits.

His smile morphs thoughtfully, as he quickly glances over the red, slumbering dragon.

"From the egg, I mean. That's how new dragons are born into the world, is what Kilgharrah had said a long time ago. Being the only Dragonlord left… it's my job," Merlin explains. "Her name is Tiamat, which… I think it means 'creation of all'."

Arthur's eyes on him narrow a little, either in the disbelief of what he's hearing or something else entirely. Merlin just keeps talking. It's starting to feel like nervous babbling. He decides then to start moving around, using his energy, heading for the shoddy-looking linen closet.

"Well, I can, um… speak in her tongue," Merlin says, a bit too casually. "And to… other dragons, as well, if they were around."

Arthur's skeptical, at best, but not because of Merlin. He doesn't know what this meant, for them, for the creature, for everyone. Dragons are a terror, but this young?

It's a girl, and Merlin apparently already knows the dragon's name. How that works is beyond his understanding of magic, including the responsibilities of a Dragonlord.

Uther taught Arthur very little about Dragonlords, only telling him that they were extinct, much like the dragons themselves. That was until his father needed one. The Dragonlord—Merlin's _father—_ shed little light on the situation as well.

The very few blankets inside are grasped with one hand, as Merlin once again adjusts his grip on the thick, fleecy bundle of newborn dragon against him. He crouches down, locating Gaius' unused cat bed and tossing the clean blankets onto it. Merlin assumed, mistakenly, that the orphaned kitten would take to it in time, but as it turns out, cats truly are independent thinkers and tangling against someone's feet in the middle of the night is far more satisfying.

As though setting down a sleeping child, Merlin moves deliberately and with the utmost care, laying Tiamat on the nest of blankets and bed.

"She'll be alright like this for the night," Merlin's voice drops to a hushed whisper, as he leaves the door to the linen closet open barely a crack. "It's likely she'll sleep for the rest of the day tomorrow, too."

And truthfully, the fledgling dragon would end up sleeping longer. A couple days, if they were lucky.

It would give Merlin more time to pore over the ancient texts in his collection, anything that resembled a practical dragon-keep guide, and remind himself that—ohhh, dear _gods_ , he really had done this, hadn't he? Called a bleeding dragon from some rubbish faire and committed to this whole thing?

Merlin groans to himself, head lowered and rubbing at one of his eyes.

What if he can't do it? What if he can't figure out what she needed to stay alive? What if the books are useless? What if she _hates_ him? What if Tiamat burns down the damn cottage?

(Now you're just being ridiculous, _Merlin_ , his Arthur mental-voice quips. She can't fly or breathe fire, and she's far too young to even speak to you. The worst your bloody bird can do is make your blankets smoky, which is probably better than how they usually smell.)

(Also, the cottage is made of fire-resistant stone. It couldn't if it tried.)

Flatly ignoring criticism from his own overactive imagination, Merlin tilts his head meaningfully at the other man, heading out of the parlor. His bedroom isn't as nicely heated as the other room, but at least here they couldn't disturb the newest guest.

Arthur shakes the tension out of himself in Merlin's bedroom, wincing as his shoulder protests at any movement. On instinct, his right hand clenches at the aching muscle, trying to ebb the pain for now. It would be fine in the morning. Arthur truly does not have the patience to deal with an injury at the moment.

But, Arthur's fingers continue pressing inattentively on his left shoulder, the same one that Merlin watched take a continuous beating during the tournament. Is he honestly going to ignore it?

With silent, bland irritation, Merlin rolls his eyes.

"Did you think you could hide that injury until it just 'went away' on its own?" he asks. "Or for it to get worse, which is exactly what's going to happen if you don't treat it." Not waiting for the inevitable backtalk or dismissive remarks, Merlin crosses the bedroom, heading back out.

"Yes, I'm so dreadfully concerned about my shoulder causing internal damage overnight. How could I be so careless?" Arthur yells after him, ignoring that Merlin more or less is not able to hear.

Merlin folds his striped sleeves up to his elbows, already summoning the kitchen cupboard to open. He plucks up a vial of amber-colored liquid, from the far back row-assortment.

Dried and coarsely ground arnica blossoms infused with olive oil. Left in the sun for two weeks before it is fully prepared. Unlike the modern over-the-counter drugs and icy-hot packs, this herbal remedy is a guarantee against the nastiest of inflamed and strained muscles.

Merlin returns to the bedroom, hastily toeing the door shut behind him.

"Shirt off," it's more of a soft, low order, and he busies himself with uncapping the vial of massage oil. "Hop to it."

Arthur blinks, gazing at Merlin before raising a suspicious eyebrow. If he thinks he's getting at—

_Oh._

What Merlin's insinuating finally clicks the cogs in Arthur's mind.

A _massage_?

After a prominent moment of quiet, Merlin looks back up, frowning.

"I can't massage this into your skin without, y'know, your _skin_."

Considering the amount of concerns and questions piling up on Arthur's end of the situation—namely the entire blasted day—he's doing an impressive job of _not_ voicing them.

It's the least bit reassuring that Arthur has no idea what to expect. And it clearly isn't his fault.

He's a guest in Merlin's cottage, a honoured and good friend, and always came first. Even, in the past, over Merlin's own safety. Or needs.

And it certainly isn't fair to keep him in the dark. But Merlin has to hear the _questions_ before providing any satisfactory answers…

Merlin's hands and fingers methodically rub together, attempting to warm the surface in preparation. The herbal oil tucks to the crook of one of his elbows. He eyes Arthur's with some guarded curiosity before it clears away.

Does Arthur seriously get annoyed by the idea of being _pampered_? Well, maybe just because it's Merlin. Bumbling, fool Merlin to Arthur.

But that was old-Merlin. The Merlin who smiled like a carefree git, who took small joys in disobeying the conventional, expected manner of keeping his mouth shut around the royals and nose clean of disasters.

He's still clumsy, knocking over flower pots, tripping over his own feet or scattered items on the floors of different rooms. But, Merlin understands _more_ than he ever has before, in the surrounding culture and government and passage of time. In the raw nature of his sorcery.

In these few days that blow by… everything seems brighter. Newer.

Merlin's mouth cracks, dry from the natural impulse to _smile_.

Arthur huffs, reaching to pull the blue jumper over his head. It lifts over Arthur's shoulders, tangling a moment in his arms, and Merlin catches an involuntary twinge to the left shoulder.

"Does _this_ please your commands?" he asks dryly, voice laced with sarcasm. "Honestly, Merlin, it'll be alright by morning."

But he says nothing on it, waiting until Arthur spreads out his arms, _mocking_ the softly demanding remark from earlier. Merlin's tongue bites down hard on the insult begging to spill out, in favour of observing the long, gold lean of Arthur's exposed torso arching over Merlin's bed— _oh, don't even go there, you bloody moron_ —before the other man flops towards the pillows, arms folding under his chin.

Merlin's throat is dry as well as his mouth, clenching up tightly.

Swallowing down his heartbeat, the warlock grasps the amber-colored vial. He mumbles a quick incantation to warm the liquid sloshing inside, something desirable above room temperature

"Believe me, I'm doing you a favour," Merlin says, no tangible emotion to it, though his every other inclination says contrary. He takes a seat beside the sprawled-out figure and dents the plush of the mattress.

He can probably work a decent angle sitting here while twisting himself to the side, but it would become uncomfortable after a while.

Merlin scoots up, but not far—Arthur has most of the damned bed even without spreading out his limbs—resting a knee up as he dumps a generous amount of the oil into both hands. The scent, low and fragrant like pollen and yet woody, hits Merlin's nostrils immediately.

When his companion appears to have settled, Merlin raises a hand, gently placing it upon the back of the injured shoulder, palm flat. "Is this alright by you?" He wants an honest answer; if Arthur's tired and wants to be left alone, or too apprehensive, Merlin would stop.

Arthur tenses faintly, feeling exposed so suddenly. He forces himself to press further into the mattress.

"Yes."

Of course it's alright. It's a _silly_ question, really, but Arthur appreciates the choice all the same.

After a confirmation, the same, oiled hand begins applying pressure, joined momentarily by its twin. Merlin digs his thumbs into what feels like a small knot, trying to set his focus on easing it before moving on.

But his mind does end up wandering. On the sensation of firm skin rubbing against his. Merlin's once more reminded that Arthur has the build of a proper warrior of his age. Muscles everywhere, and sun-tainted with a healthy glowing color. And of course, the battle scars.

Merlin's forefinger brushes over a pinkened, jagged one, on the crest of Arthur's left shoulder, his fingertip traveling along the ridged path. It earns him a sigh.

"Tell me if you need more pressure or less." Merlin presses his lips together to prevent a smirk. "Where do you feel the most pain?" he asks, one hand with an exploratory sweep over muscles.

"Left shoulder. By my neck."

Arthur pulled the muscle there when the shield dragged down, the aching strain leading up the side of his neck. Arthur can as easily blame the small headache on that as the whole other incident. "My lower back, as well," he announces.

His back hadn't been injured. That is more or less wishful thinking.

The now languid breaths, tightening faintly up then releasing out with golden muscles visibly undulating, give cues to Merlin that he must be succeeding in his objective. Manipulating the soreness and twinges of pain to disappear, and _relaxing_ the person beside him. But, the positioning is all wrong. He needs to be closer.

Arthur's slow mumble about his lower back resolves the decision.

There isn't a flicker of consideration in Arthur perhaps "taking advantage" of the offer (or rather, a straight-out command), and it's probably to do with the steady, dozing haze in Merlin's eyes and head.

More of the herbal oil coats thickly to Merlin's pale hands, as he kneels up, exhaling, denting the mattress's edge further. But it doesn't appear to bother anyone. To distract the lulling, mellowed effect.

Merlin's bed isn't frail in its construction. Or its quality. It could likely take the combined heaviness of six fully-grown men, he supposes.

Merlin parts his legs, swinging one and his weight to the other side, towards Arthur's left side.

The deep straddle above Arthur's hips stabilises him if Merlin needs to reach higher or lower. It does put more ache and pressure on his knees and legs. No matter.

Somehow, it begins as a lazy, soft exploration, the downy and invisible hairs brushing against the surface of Merlin's fingers rises in tiny bumps. Flesh with warmth radiating like sun-heated foliage.

He lets out a loud breath, trying to imagine it doesn't fill with the sound of wonder. Merlin can't remember… touching. Not like this, not with someone he cherishes. Not so open in trust.

Then again, it takes a fair more to make him forget _this_ body.

Visibly, anyway. How it looks bloodied and bandaged, or wrapped in thickly-woven cloth, or flexing with anger or slumping with defeat.

Merlin's hands return to Arthur's left shoulder, as he leans over silently, carefully digging into those terrible, sore muscles, getting them to loosen before dragging his thumbs up Arthur's neck.

This all requires an extent of arm strength and dexterity that Merlin isn't quite used to. He'll be worn out by the end of it, if the growing exhaustion doesn't already close over him, Merlin's eyelids feeling impossibly laden.

He tries focusing again, bringing himself back with a startling amount of clarity, gently examining the strong lines of Arthur's back.

Round, dark moles sprinkling across planes of skin, and blemishes of angry colour resulting from early adulthood. The familiar, mottled scars.

Especially them, every one of Arthur's scars resemble the tangible pages of his life, dog-eared and yellowed. A memory follows each: a spear, a dagger, a sword, an accident, a mistake, a failed assassination attempt thanks to Merlin's sorcery. The only scar missing is…

One that wouldn't be facing him. Mordred's blade.

Something hot and damnable collides inside Merlin's chest, and he pushes out the memory with a cringe. The acidic _taste_ of blood, of Arthur's blood seeping out of his worthless, broken armour. That wound that _killed_ him, that took Arthur too young, gone now. Healed in Avalon, deep below the murky waters.

These scars reveal how faulted and human Arthur really is, despite the dreamless, thousand-some sleep. Merlin's own speak… a different tale entirely. Of faults, but seamless and unforgiving.

Merlin's scars are not to be revealed.

Not here, here and smelling honeyed oil-fragrance and the hint of his shampoo on Arthur's hair. It's not here to linger on those burdens.

They would come. All pages of Merlin's story, all faults would lay out for Arthur.

Stifled, content noises reach Merlin's ears, his hands having shifted from Arthur's opposite and now loosened shoulder. A low chuckle escapes Merlin's mouth, as he presses his thumbs rhythmically into Arthur's lower back, spindly fingers wrapping in place to his sides.

He could have been mistaken but Merlin hears something almost like light, drowsy snort.

Merlin leans forward again, thumbs pressing still, nearly aligning himself to Arthur's back. His sable hair tumbling. Liips opening and hovering over a clean, soft nape of neck. Pulse thrumming.

"You were… brilliant today," he murmurs, knowing it's only half brave, as Merlin assumes his king's is so close to restful sleep. Lips twitch to a half-smile.

"Someone should let you know that, yeah?"

*

He's _good_ at this.

But, perhaps it's also the fact that any touch, especially Merlin's, has the ability to relax him.

Soon enough, Arthur's chin weighs comfortably into his forearms again, eyelids growing heavy once more. He pays no mind to the shifting pressure on the bed; Merlin's added weight to the bed hardly enough to move his own position. That changes when the smaller man seats Arthur's hips.

A soft grunt escapes him as Arthur's lower body presses further into the bed, his eyes open wide.

Merlin's _sitting_ on him.

It's more of a open straddle, really. After a moment to consider it, Arthur says nothing. It's not bothersome. Merlin isn't a _heavy burden_.

Arthur doesn't need to speak, nor did he attempt to cover up the occasional pleased noise. Merlin doesn't tease, not like he would. Arthur's on the brink of unconsciousness, and if there's a chance that he's embarrassing himself—then to hell with it. Arthur's chest lifts in slow patterns, his breaths exhaling against the warmth of his own arm.

His lower back hadn't been injured during the fight, but even as Merlin's fingers work along it, Arthur feels it give way. Feels a ghost of warm breath against the back of his neck.

A low rumble of a hum replies to Merlin as Arthur wades through the fog until he remembers how to speak.

"Felt good to hold a sword," he mumbles. "Suppose I wasn't too terrible for a man who hasn't practiced in a few centuries."

Arthur is clearly benefiting, and vocal with muffled sighs and grunts, and that's… that's what matters.

A few slurred words tug Merlin's lips up further, and with a little imagination, maybe Arthur could feel it against his neck.

"Not terrible," he repeats in agreement, in a murmur, daring himself to entertain the idea of planting dry, multiple kisses into Arthur's nape, profoundly worship into his hair.

The pads to Merlin's thumbs soften up their pressure on Arthur's back, taking the chance to lazily stroke the occasional, thoughtful line of heat.

The quiescent atmosphere inside the bedroom appreciated, because somehow this moment feels ambrosial and shivery, and Merlin doesn't want it to go away. This deliberate sense of reliance, of closeness other than it being obvious skin contact.

Silence now is of forgetful comfort, not skepticism.

A long night's rest is the proper diagnosis, to allow those muscles not to overwork and develop sore once more. Merlin's oil-drying hands do linger, gently sweeping up Arthur's back, nails bearing down lightly.

He wants to affirm these last stolen moments, into physical memory, being granted such, before fuzzily realizing that moving is… good, too…

That's the final coherent thought in that exhaustion-dazed head of Merlin's.

The bed-frame gives a soft, disapproving creak, when a slow-blinking, frowning Merlin pitches his leg back to himself, no longer straddling above narrow hips.

His sense of balance falls askew rather quickly, and Merlin fights against it valiantly. He groans, closing his eyes and stretching out to the available space of mattress. The familiar, plush quality of his bed zaps the remaining energy Merlin clings so fiercely to, head sinking to a pillow, and warmth accompanying the darkness.

*

The hunger, clenching up his stomach, is what summons Merlin back to the waking world.

At least, that's the first thing.

He ignores the bodily pings, brow furrowing, and shifts his limbs. Sunlight blares behind his eyelids, making everything a mellow, reddish colour, and definitely unable to nod off again. Bugger that.

Merlin turns his face from the annoying light, burying himself into the closest, softest item and releasing a sulky, half-breath into it.

What time is it? It can't be _morning_ … no, it had been just after sunset, skies fading to a rich, melancholy blue when Merlin had…

Had—oh. Ohh.

Pillows don't have chests, do they?

Merlin's eyelashes brush against the surface of Arthur's skin, eyes parting open, as the previous day's memories crash into him altogether and quicken the fluttering pace of his heart.

He was helping. That night. Herbal massage oil and that. And Merlin _fell_ asleep. On Arthur.

No, no wait, don't be stupid. It wasn't _on_ Arthur, that's ridiculous. It was… next. to Arthur. Was that better?

The heavy weight of the arm, where it's wrapped around his side, tightens.

Arthur's fingers flex sleepily into Merlin's jumper.

Oh, _yes_. It is.

*


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a little bit, unfortunately, and a lot ended up happening within that span of time. October turned into a literal nightmare very quickly, and there was no Halloween celebration for me. I wasn't in a good place while grieving a death of someone I cared for, but I'm hoping this month will have different results for me and in general. I appreciate you guys sticking around and your patience, always. Any kind words are so appreciated, and I hope you guys enjoy this chapter! ♥
> 
> Update: the person usually betaing won't be doing it - I asked [flowersheep](http://archiveofourown.org/users/flowersheep/works) to help me out for this new chapter, and she's AMAZING, THANK YOU. SERIOUSLY. YOU SAVED MY NECK. I am definitely looking for someone who can help me out for **BETA READING** future chapters so if you are interested, please send me **[an email here](mailto:atlaandtroll@aol.com)** !
> 
> I'd like to thank [veritably_mad](http://archiveofourown.org/users/veritably_mad/pseuds/veritably_mad/) for helping out and everyone who has supported me so far. As well as my Britpick [ememmyem](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ememmyem/pseuds/ememmyem) who saved my neck. Half of this fic wouldn't exist without [marlena_darling](http://archiveofourown.org/users/marlena_darling/pseuds/marlena_darling) and I wanna say thank you for taking this journey with me and you've been a best friend to me. I love you lots and this is ours.

*

Arthur doesn't remember falling asleep.

His mind drifts, lulling him to the edge of consciousness, before tumbling over and giving in to his exhaustion.

Everything turning to blank, dark slate with the weight of the moon itself. He's too tired to dream, to do anything. It hadn't been the sword-fighting that tired him out, not all of it. Arthur is _tired_.

Since his return into the living world, a night did not go by without a fitful sleep. Either dreams plagued him, or memories screaming so loud they refused to let him close his eyes until the early hours of dawn. Or sleep didn't come at all.

As sunlight drapes through the bedroom window, the restlessness is no more. Arthur's body is heavy with drowsiness and warmth, his limbs unmoving even as he releases a slow, drowsy exhale.

He faces away from the window so his eyes are shielded, and the heat of morning pools around his spine. Arthur is comfortable, content, and curled into the bed, fingers grasping the sheets.

Except, the sheets were never this firm.

A pause, a few beats in-between. And then, Arthur remembers the moments before falling asleep: Merlin on top of him, fingers and hands digging into his back. He doesn't need to open his eyes to realise what's happening now, but the instinct to see for himself gets the better of him.

Arthur's eyelids flutter open, just enough so lidded blue eyes confirm his suspicions. And indeed, here is Merlin, tucked into his chest with his own arm curling protectively around the warlock. He's still drowsy, yes, but Arthur takes it in.

There's a faint flutter of Merlin's eyelashes against his skin, and Arthur sucks in another quiet breath as he allows his eyes to close once more.

Not yet. Too early to be _fully_ awake.

He shifts closer, his arm pulling around Merlin tighter and his head nestling on the pillows. It's a closeness without fear—no panicked excuses or disillusions. Arthur makes his choice, and he _wants_ to hold onto the other man, bask in this warmth as long as permitted.

It's been a short time and an eternity… all at once… since he last had someone filling the space beside him in his sleep. It's not quite set in, the reality of how things _are_. But waking up with Merlin pressing up under his arms certainly has him believe this is a strange _new_ world. If he did not have better sense, Arthur would have wondered if he was still dreaming.

The sensation is… good. Not that he doubted it, but it's what Arthur's used to.

Guinevere remained close to his side, their arms laced and their bodies near, but like _this_ , not always. If he stills his breathing, if Arthur quiets his mind completely, he can hear the slow rise and fall of Merlin's breathing.

Both men have been treading over this for the past few days, testing the waters and seeing how _whatever_ they have worked. So now _finding_ himself here, entangled with thinner limbs, with Merlin's arm and face pushed against his chest, it's not as shocking as it might have been.

But… what do they say after Merlin wakes?

*

Fingers creep slowly over the back of Merlin's striped jumper, maybe a centimeter or two, before grasping again with renewed, sleepy vigor.

In his state of lessening haze from the undisturbed, well-deserved slumber and a burst of trepidation, Merlin finds himself being dragged closer by Arthur's persistent, muscular arm.

Being pressed in eager and tight, enough so that Merlin's forearm that normally curls to himself in sleep is the only possible barrier between their chests.

The tip of Merlin's nose and his closed mouth touch lightly to more sturdy, sleep-warm skin.

An audible, sucking inhale, against Arthur's sternum dappled with dark blond hairs, confirms that his king smells distinctly of the olive oil and blossoms, along with light perspiration.

Being like this, being caught in a hug to Arthur's bare chest, isn't… uncomfortable so much as the passing thought of Arthur imagining it being someone else is. Merlin should expect that, though. Arthur's defenses may be down right now; he may be dreaming of _holding_ Gwen.

A prickle of useless frustration darts under Merlin's skin, fogging at the corner of his eyes.

Hoping on some level that Arthur _is_ conscious, his deliberate breathes clueing in on the very real possibility, and mindful of just who is now seized in this clumsy embrace, Merlin chooses to shut his eyes.

In part it's to rid the damned sunlight from cruelly blinding him some more, and in the other, it simply feels better. But he doesn't try sleeping. Sleeping is for people who don't have obligations, or worries, or don't have the once-king of Camelot making grabby hands at them. In their own bed. That sounds… fluffed somehow, Merlin considers.

Or not. Grabby hands aren't _always_ unwelcome—oh hell.

Yes, yes absolutely, it's a fair combination of reasons why this morning is bloody well _fantastic_.

No start of a headache or migraine clocking at his temples. His previously injured jaw feels good as new. And despite the persistent chill of Merlin's bedroom, even with the sheets being kicked right off, there's heat. Body heat being shared from the man lying beside him, providing a reliable sense of warmth down to Merlin's toes.

Arthur _is_ awake. He isn't planning on moving away from him. _Consciously_ keeping this decision.

They make little but bolder steps. Not quite drifting off the worn and familiar path of their long, easy friendship, but _deepening_ it, somehow. Letting it evolve without rushing. And Merlin can accept, for a time, little, bold steps for the days on.

Merlin never knew Arthur to hold back when he felt something was _right_. But maybe holding back is a new strategy. New strategy for a new era. It makes sense. Merlin doesn't want rushing.

He suppresses a yawn itching softly at the back of his throat, eyelids and lashes trembling against gold skin, exhaling out his nose. Merlin's forehead nuzzles, its resting place too firm but he hardly complains. It's not often he finds himself in the same bed with someone.

Merlin's lips part, still touching lightly to chest, as he murmurs out, " _Arthur?_ "

For good measure, Merlin gently prods a toe experimentally to the ankle that isn't his own.

" _Mmhh… fell asleep._ "

Voice groggy and weighed down by the effort of his first words, Arthur only catches his name. Merlin, unsurprisingly he realises, sounds positively adorable in the morning.

"So I realised," Arthur mumbles back. He may have woken on his own, and far less grumpy than he would be otherwise, but it's difficult not to banter.

His voice is an octave deeper than Merlin has heard in awhile, and rumbling from within the broad space of Arthur's chest. Hearing the noise, _feeling_ , sends a jolt of unmistakable desire up Merlin's spine, but he subdues it.

A low, breathy laugh parts Merlin's lips, making the decision easier.

No ill will from Arthur's sarcasm, or a trace of scathing nature. He feels where the weight of Arthur's head heavily budges the pillows, and finally where Arthur's chin taps against the crest of Merlin's head.

Who would believe the greatest sorcerer to ever walk the earth, pleasantly helpless and yet feeling completely _safe_ in a mortal's arms?

This shouldn't have to end.

Now… if only Merlin's arm wasn't going numb where it is trapped.

The muscular arm round Merlin's waist goes rigid, fingers clenching like Arthur expects him to be trying to leave, but that's the opposite of what Merlin _wants_.

He only wriggles himself in place on his side for a few seconds. Merlin's now freed arm reaches up, hand sliding over Arthur's cheek and ear before cupping the back of his neck.

Merlin's thumb drags languidly against Arthur's hairline.

"I wanted to kiss you last night," he admits, not revealing the twinge of nervous habit, when the sudden instinct to backpedal and drop the conversation grapples with other instinct. The same thumb taps once, twice against the nape of Arthur's soft neck. "Here."

"Dunno why I didn't," Merlin whispers, lips no longer pressing to Arthur's skin, and the melancholy appears there before he can control it.

Even with the knitted, fleecy layer of clothing between his skin and Arthur's thumb, Merlin still feels it draw crooked, sluggish patterns.

Not like soothing a frightened child, or a distressed maid. Not feeling obligation because Arthur is a _knight_ and it's some rubbish moral code because the other person is frail or _weaker_.

Just… holding someone, feeling comfortable enough.

Merlin may have traded all the gold and currency he acquired as centuries passed on, every piece, every note, every quid, for simple hours like this. For them to last. For them to have been, quiet and rejoicing, with the king and the friend he had tragically lost so long ago.

Eyes closed, it does nothing to cut off the sensation of hard-earned muscles relaxing against him, or the steady, lulling tempo of Arthur's heart where Merlin can feel it beating strong, his forehead pressed down.

The same heart had been taken from a great kingdom, from a great queen, and left cold and empty of a great life it had once thrived.

Merlin would never forget how it was, stuttering to an end against his blood-crusted hand, and how everything _important_ in Merlin's life did as well.

… Whole worlds can burn for all he cares, as long as this heart _lives_.

Deep within Merlin, kindling in his bones, his magic hums low in agreement. And he hums to it, fingers massaging into blond hairs.

Merlin's teeth flash out, sinking into his bottom lip. He fights for a less touchier subject, trying to sound genuine, "How's the shoulder?"

"It feels good, no pain," Arthur responds. The faint smile curling into a teasing expression above Merlin's head. "The oil you used must've done the trick."

"That's what it's made to do," Merlin says. "Not that you'd understand countless years of complex medicinal preparation."

Arthur's reaction to Merlin's dry retort is a snort, quiet and faintly amused, as if he dismisses the jab entirely like a petty attempt.

"I don't expect _you_ to either."

Another laugh escapes Merlin, a bit fuller than the last. His body much more awake now, no longer interested in keeping still for long, deciding being cozy and warm is better. But Merlin's hunger wins out that decision with a long audible growl.

Arthur can't see it obviously, but Merlin's smirk weakens away to embarrassment.

"I think that's a sign for breakfast," he announces, maneuvering himself upright despite the determined hold Arthur has.

He must be a right laughable sight, dark hair mussed in all directions, his rolled-sleeve jumper wrinkled. It feels like the side of his cheek is hot and likely a shade of pink from impressing on the bed. But the slivers of Merlin's eyes open, taking in the long, lean sight of his accidental bed-mate, brighter from leaving the sleep-haze.

Being laughable is acceptable, sure; it isn't the _worst_ impression Merlin ever made, but… how _fair_ is it that Arthur gets to look _irresistible_ while half-sprawled out and half-asleep?

Not that… oh, no, it isn't a bad sight at all, and that's the problem. It tempts him right back to lying down and— _ow_! Blimey, stomach.

Merlin's expression twitches with the new, sharp bodily ping.

He scoots out of the rest of the sleepy, loosening embrace, sending Arthur a mental apology at the grumpy breath that follows.

To make up for breaking the stillness and likely the good mood, Merlin claps his hand over his mouth, smacking an exaggeratedly loud kiss to it before slapping his palm lightly to the back of Arthur's neck.

"There, now I feel better," he says, conversationally. Merlin ducks out of the room, faster than he imagines, and unaware of the instantaneous reaction from his king. He does, however, imagine that it may have miffed and/or confused the other man.

Merlin plucks up a shiny, red apple from the basket centerpiece on the kitchen island, taking a large bite to at least settle, in part, the hunger. As he munches thoughtfully, the refrigerator door opens, by hand and not summoning magic this time. With a box of eggs, milk and butter also fished out, and by memory, Merlin already has a recipe for frying the ingredients. _Cheese omelettes._

As a package of grated cheddar cheese grasps into Merlin's fingers, his thoughts about the recipe sweep out of sight, pushed like a tide.

Would Arthur sulk for a while? He can't be _that_ arsed.

Or would a slow-burning irritation get the better of him, compelling Arthur to storm out in a fit of misplaced, fever-hot emotion, into the kitchen—calmly shutting the fridge door but fisting Merlin's striped collar, both yanking and guiding him into a standing position.

Back him against the same worktop they favored once before, only this time Merlin's thighs and front knocking and leaning towards it, pale, spindly hands flattening to the surface. Getting a glimpse of Arthur's eyes, intense and alight with colour, before accepting being physically turned, head dangling down and biting his lips when Arthur's hands crawl from Merlin's sides to his hips.

The too-rough squeeze, and the hot, nibbling kisses to Merlin's throat leaving Merlin's knees jellied, a groan working free from his mouth—

— _christ_.

Merlin slams the package onto an available, flat surface, and then slams his fridge door shut.

He gives up. Fantasies are too much. Merlin scrubs his hands over his face hard, the groan rising being one of frustration. A _snog_ , a proper snog, and that's it. That's all Merlin needs.

He leaves the food out where it is, brow puckered, face set determined.

By some stroke of blind luck, or maybe Arthur needs to tap a kidney, the blond man is already heading towards him in the hallway.

Merlin cuts his path off, leveling a softened, gauging look, waiting until Arthur's at a standstill, though questioningly, before laying a hand on Arthur's shoulder. Roughly squeezing it, as he imagines Arthur's hands; and perhaps it's wild, confident impulse thudding in him, but Merlin finds the distance closed, Arthur's mouth brushing warm to his.

*

A grumpy noise escapes him as Merlin fully tugs away from his grasp, Arthur's hand falling to the duvet underneath him.

It's still warm from the heat of the body lying there only moments before, but it isn't the _same_.

He doesn't want to be left here on his own for the sake of _hunger_. They can eat later. But apparently Merlin has other thoughts, and Arthur peers through his now squinted eyes as the other man climbs off the bed.

He's about to complain, maybe even whine a little and try to persuade him to come back, but instead Arthur witnesses Merlin clasp his hand over his mouth and make a ridiculously exaggerated noise, and the kiss he mimics hits against the back of Arthur's neck. He stares quizzically at the oddity that is Merlin as the warlock ducks from the room. Arthur drops his head back onto his pillow with a huff.

The desire to stay in bed longer is sated now that he's alone, and even if Arthur is comfortable… the sheets become less and less heated.

A few minutes later, Arthur begins to move, his body slowly shifting through the haze of sleep. His muscles revel in the stretch, no aches to be felt (thanks to Merlin, he assumes). A soft grunt as Arthur's back arches. Habits be damned; a lazy morning feels like something he needed.

A groggy Arthur manages to haul himself up and pad towards the door.

The floor is cold against his feet, his soft trousers hanging low on his hips and wrinkled from sleep, but as Arthur scrubs at his face… he doesn't mind much. He can hear Merlin banging around in the kitchen, so he may as well get some food.

His plan changes, however, when he steps in the corridor only to see Merlin coming at him with a pinched expression of determination.

Oh _hell_ , what on earth did he do _now_ —?

Instead of the mood-swing Arthur expects, or the lecture that seems to want to pour out of Merlin's mouth, Arthur receives a very different wake up call.

He comes to a halt as Merlin blocks his path, eyebrows drawn together in confusion.

It's when the hand finds his shoulder and squeezes that Arthur realises what's happening, so by the time Merlin's lips brush to his, he's well prepared.

However, chaste is perhaps too _disagreeable_ for him after being left alone in the bed.

Perhaps he's still a bit grumpy, having never been a morning person, but Arthur takes it to his advantage. He presses a bit firmer, knocking aside the ghostly brushing of Merlin's lips in favour of a solid touch as his hands settle on Merlin's waist, fingers once more curling into fabric.

*

It may have been Merlin's own hunger playing tricks on him, from deep in his belly or from his lust-addled mind, why he feels the need to purposely _seek_ Arthur out now.

Why to abandon his previous decision to stay in the other room and busy himself, busy his hands and the focus of his thoughts with a routine morning chore. Find a reason to _be_ busy, instead of envisioning his king, shirtless and lounging on Merlin's bed, muscles taut and sun-gold, glancing drowsily over him.

Refusing what he truly wanted has always been a familiar habit, has been around nearly as long as he has been alive.

Merlin _accepts_ things as they are, until he can change them for the better: not being able to reveal his magic in Ealdor, that Uther would never lift the ban on sorcery, that Arthur sometimes only viewed him as _a punching bag_ rather than a human, that Merlin was the only one who could keep Camelot from falling to ruin.

And, finally, that the kingdom _did_ —wrung of life and crumbling to dust. Lost without its king, its queen, and its only hope for a sovereign.

Though Merlin had wished her well, a sinking, numbing feeling crept over him as he watched Gwen's heir—her _precious_ , headstrong daughter—gallop off on horseback, never to be seen again by his eyes.

Maybe he might have felt less compelled to seek an end, to scratch longingly at a persistent itch, if Arthur responded with a little less surety.

Not stepping out of Merlin's squeezing touch, opening his dry, soft lips slightly to Merlin's, not wide enough to display submissiveness but pressing their mouths together to convey the message " _yes_ ".

Refusal to cooperate falls along the lines of many subjects for Merlin, many to do with tampering with his moral code, but Arthur's orders coupled with his needs have perpetually been a special case.

Fingers take a slow liking to digging into the striped fleece, jerking at the material tentatively and guiding Merlin closer by holding onto his waist.

He murmurs Arthur's name, faint enough for it to be missed with heavier breathing, but leaving vibrations.

At the sensation of a light suck on his lip caught between Arthur's own, Merlin rumbles a groan, showing his approval with a deeper but careful kiss, aligning their mouths once more and loosening his jaw.

The noise from him has a much clearer effect; the sound moves through Arthur's body like a strike of lightning against his dulled, morning senses. Proud that his prompt has been successful, Arthur loosens his jaw, deepening the kiss a moment.

Merlin's nerve-ends buzz, like each touch is a form of electricity, and Merlin demands a _shock_ , hard enough to pull his breath straight from him.

His body apprehends the translation before the rest of him, disjointed in the connection, and it is very doubtful that utter strength causes the feat—in fact, Merlin doesn't have the foggiest on how Arthur's back slams soundly to the corridor wall.

But he won't deny, not this time, that he likes it this way, bodies pressed together and lined up, their teeth clanking together, noses smushed, and their fingers scrambling at each other.

Merlin's hand not cradling between the wall and the back of Arthur's skull, cushioning it from impact, keeps firmly pushing against Arthur's ribs, fingers spanned.

None of the bright morning-light of this new day reaches them here. None to cloud Merlin's eyes and dampen his mood. For that extent of good fortune, though it's small, Merlin thinks of blessing some unnamed deity… were he not otherwise distracted.

Fainter glows silhouette the hallway, dusky and olivine, and profile them as well. He and Arthur are taller, darker contours, ever-shaping with colors muted and lurid. But not zapped of _vitality_ , no.

How can Merlin feel the least bit dead with precious life absorbing him and clinging decisively—Arthur's palms riding and inching up the fabric of his jumper, exposing a sliver of pale skin. Warm, strong hands trailing Merlin's back, summoning heat to amplify along the twin paths.

Touch, human touch, he only has reminiscent memories. The women, and the men, are flickers, match-tips burnt out by the passage of time.

And _now_ he has a new body to explore against his hands, cased in flesh of an old and beloved friend; it isn't the discrepancies that make this achingly beautiful—not in it for a quick pull or hasty comfort. No flicker of humanity is more luminous, no other soul-light.

Arthur is the sun to a tiny universe, plasma-hot and magnetic. Bringing about an end to the perennial winter by his presence alone.

Despite the bitter autumn weather outside the cottage's windows, Merlin feels the changing of seasons to his eternity. A blossom of spring, melting the frost and heralding renewal and fragile hope.

A twitch, whole-bodied, and a low, dazed grunt when Arthur's naked shoulders press to the cold wall. The inside of Merlin's mouth fills to a released breath, and no sign of obvious discomfort to follow. Arthur doesn't _want_ to move from where he is, his body conveying this message by positioning his arms to grasp more firmly at Merlin.

Merlin's heart thuds a bit faster, his fingers scrambling and curling into blond strands, when one hand lays against the open, wide space between Merlin's shoulder blades.

As if subconsciously, as if that skin, concealed from touch, inked black, requires more attention.

The image of his king revering his own tattooed crest, not just like the night Arthur discovered it, not just quiet, awed words… hands and nails to be replaced by lips and teeth… it pools heat.

Somewhere in the haze of moving towards the hallway wall, in the struggle of balance, Merlin's thigh leans some of its dominant weight between Arthur's legs.

And for Arthur, he wants him close, in an embrace to make up for the earlier dismissal from the bed. His lips an easy pace, dragging eagerly along Merlin's lower lip. Arthur's head presses back a little against Merlin's hand, dragging that lip with him in a quick tug before releasing in favour of readjusting the kiss.

A breathy moan tears from Merlin. His lip bitten red and snapping back as Arthur yields it.

 _God_ —

Merlin's thigh shifts forward, brushing lightly and instinctively to the other man's crotch, feeling Arthur's legs trap around it. _God, oh._

*

Now that he has Merlin underneath his fingertips, he's incapable of letting go.

Grainy fabric where Arthur's hands roam, lazy and inspired all the same. Not for the first time, he finds his longing for intimacy.

Hands ran through gold locks, and Arthur's eyes squeeze shut as he feels a tug.

He does not mind the dulled pain that comes with it; it's fleeting, chased away by the warmth that accompanies Merlin's moan. Reverberations pass through one body to the other, and he soaks them up, swiping his tongue inside Merlin's mouth.

Here, pushed into the corner and in shadow, they are not hiding. Because there is no one _to_ hide from, a part of Arthur realises. No more peering, eager eyes. No court hounding his every move. No _expectations_ of him besides the legends of storybooks. For the moment, the thought does not gnaw at Arthur's chest. Instead, he embraces the knowledge.

He could _want_ this, want Merlin, and actually give in. He was allowed to _forget_ , and he does so in eagerness.

Merlin's hips slotting with his own. His back against the wall, leaving little room to move except against the body pressing flush against him. Cold on one side, building heat on the other, and Arthur pleasantly stuck in the middle.

He accommodates the new friction, pressing against Merlin's thigh to keep the other man in place. Arthur's right hand between shoulder blades, possessively tangled in Merlin's shirt.

A choked groan escapes him, the noise low and quieter than those Merlin makes—and Arthur quite wants to hear more of _those_.

His lips part wider, a sharp breath taken in through his nose, and Arthur bats away pride in favour of trying to get more out of Merlin. His useless manservant never used to stop talking, but now Merlin is less inclined.

Arthur needs to see just how much he can _unravel_ from a now tightly wound man.

*

There is no precursor. Merlin suddenly feels too-warm in his jumper.

His cheeks flushing, the inside of his skull cotton-fuzzy and less with swarming, hesitant thoughts, while his body edges for a gratifying overload.

With Arthur indicating no sign of relinquishing his hold, making his decision palpable by skimming a hand to touch up Merlin's back, _underneath_ the scratchy, colorful fleece this time.

As if his king needs a clearer, more physical reminder of what this is, what he has crowded against him, the flesh and the blood of Merlin's being.

The skin-soft, hot sensation of bare to bare contact exhales a small, pleading noise, minute and inaudible, from the opening of his mouth. Arthur, on the other hand, lightly groans to Merlin's saliva-damp lips, too low and too steady. Not enough, not nearly _enough_.

And definitely not satisfied with the idea of Arthur holding back, Merlin's long fingers deep in thin, yellow strands tug back, harsher. Keeping the movement noticeable and perhaps tinged with a dull ache, but without the harsh accompaniment of pain.

Whether or not he hears Arthur's reaction, good and _loud_ , he leans his face towards the other man, planting careful and deceptively sweet kisses to the sharp jut of Arthur's jawline. Merlin continues until he reaches a pink earlobe, setting a tender nipping bite to the cartilage.

Arthur has most certainly underestimated Merlin's skills, but he supposes over the centuries Merlin may have actually had a chance to _practise_.

The imaginings give an ugly wrench to Arthur's chest, through the lucidity of the moment, and perhaps with a faint sense of jealously. Arthur's hands dig.

Vaguely, in the back of Merlin's mind, it registers as amused, bland surprise that Arthur isn't trying to switch their positions, staking his claim to the more dominant role, but, this is _nice_. Having to set the pace, taking all the time Merlin wants.

But in a manner of speaking, the roles bleed together, diluting any convinced assumptions of boundaries and expectations—when Arthur's hips rock against him.

A distinct sensation, cloth and hard, clenching muscle, speeds Merlin's heart once more and heat pools, his cock already beginning to fill.

Oh, _oh_ shit.

Merlin breathes into Arthur's exposed neck, mouth plastered onto sun-gold throat, trying to quiet the shaky panting and occasional feeble, whining sounds.

He should… be embarrassed, shouldn't he? The noises and apparent neediness, for hustling and rutting his guest in the middle of an early morning when Arthur probably only needs to pee—not that Merlin has heard an actual complaint yet—but, _hell_ , he also feels really _good_. More good than should be possible, considering the details of his life.

How easily something like closeness with another person, someone constructed of profound trust and adoration, diminishes the sorrows…

Chin tilting up, Merlin quickly presses their mouths together, sucking in an eager breath. He savours the kinder nature to it with their lips closed, no longer idling with sucks and tongues gliding. Untangling from blond hair and pushing his left hand flat to the wall, finding relief in the support.

He flexes his right hand to Arthur's ribcage unconsciously, fingers lifting, before lowering them down muscular torso. Fingers nudge past the trouser material slinging low to Arthur's hip, scrambling to hold the outside of a softly-haired thigh.

Arthur hears the _trembles_ against his neck, Merlin's hot breath causing Arthur to thump his head back further against the wall.

Oh, hell. He's in so far over his head, but _succumbing_ holds appeal.

That doesn't mean he forgets to breath in. Arthur responds to the quick kiss, opening his lips and smiling. The feeling of Merlin's hand releasing its grip on his head allows him more freedom to kiss back, but Arthur's intentions shatter as Merlin's other hand suddenly locates a way into his trousers.

 _God have mercy_ , yes.

Merlin is close, so incredibly _near_ him that Arthur is clueless on what he _needs_ to do. Never had this seemed like an option.

Living magic thuds beneath the layers of Merlin's bone-marrow, networking into every breathing fiber of this warlock, and thuds with Merlin's heartbeat, coaxing him.

 _Hal_.

Safe.

This is safety. This is…

Merlin urges on another rocking motion from Arthur, still gripping tightly at Arthur's thigh. He can't swallow down the next moan. But… Merlin needs to break the kiss… as comfortable as it is, as comfortable as _he_ is.

His blue eyes peek open, blinking to rid the temporary haze. Merlin leans out the few centimeters, examining Arthur's features with an uncharacteristically shy and toothy smile.

"Hi," he says, leaving the word a murmur.

Arthur stares, his conscious slowly shifting from _instinct_ , to hold and touch, to _functioning_ with real words.

He's incredulous, admittedly. Merlin has the… audacity to _greet_ him when his hand is practically up against his cock?

"Hi," Arthur repeats, voice bemused. (Are they about to have a conversation, or is this Merlin playing some sort of trick…?)

*

The next thing to say to Arthur is… not so apparent.

The full-blown grin on Merlin's expression hushes to a smaller, more close-lipped smile, though no less genuine.

He doesn't think he knows why exactly Merlin felt overcome by the urge to distance himself from this, from how Arthur's throat clenches when he grunts or how his swallows click, or how the vibrations of his head knocking back as Merlin's fingers slip to his muscular thigh feel.

Without having to focus solely on the realisation, Merlin likes this, _nono_ — "like" is a terribly inadequate word. It's wrong.

"Like" does not hold up the countless hours of youthful pining, or grasp at the sincerest emotions.

Merlin never "liked" Arthur.

Of all notions, it could never be that easy to decipher. Even with Merlin's selfless nature to those in need, he _did_ believe in some regard of self-preservation.

How could simply "liking" another person compel you to give up your life to a vengeful sorceress? Or to risk a beheading to scale up castle walls, sneaking into well-guarded chambers using only the dark of night to cover you?

Or to face the Cailleach, knowing that once you enter the bargain… you could never go home… never feel the sun on your face or hear Gwen's laughter or indulge the affectionate, rough claps on his shoulder from the knights…

Never see your destiny fulfilled… never see Arthur's face again…

Merlin didn't get the chance to ponder it further, not then at the Isle, not when Lancelot _decided_ for everyone who would stay and who would go.

Because of that sacrifice, and because destiny is both a merciful and cruel master, he can stare at Arthur. For however long he wanted. Can memorise every inch of his skin, count the freckles in Arthur's eyes. The thin, white run of a scar to the corner of Arthur's eyebrow. The prominence of his facial bones. The gold hairs over his lip, prickling like stubble when Merlin kisses him.

There's not an explanation to this sudden apprehension, or how _right_ it is with Arthur's hand digging out of Merlin's lightweight jumper, fingers threading black stands of hair. Enveloping him, pressing them closer, conveying more than a " _like_ ", too.

Arthur never "liked" Merlin either; aside from the obvious insults and yelling, the meaning wound down an _entirely_ different path. There was no absolute certainty in the matter… but he may have ventured a guess that Arthur viewed their friendship as complex and unorthodox as Merlin had.

' _Lovely morning, isn't it? I fancied a snog_ ,' is not the blunt remark Merlin wants to say, and answer the faint but growing confusion.

But above everything else, it sounds utterly ridiculous.

Slowly, the fingers on Arthur's thigh relax.

How much time has passed? It's been lost on Arthur since the first press of lips. How on _earth_ did they get here? Not in the corridor—that's not what he meant. How did _this_ happen?

This new change in their relationship. In the whirlwind of the time passing by, Arthur somehow missed the ultimate turning point leading to their current position.

Even if he tries to think about it, Arthur's too foggy to truly remember. Every detail of this new age is so crystal clear when they put it together, but with Merlin, everything dulls. Arthur is once again reminded of being unable to keep up with the pace the _world_ seems to run at now.

" _Yeh_ …" is all Merlin gets out. It's as the previous murmur, mouth dry, before he finally notices the increasing sounds from the parlour. Like purposeful scratching.

He tears his eyes from Arthur's own, brows furrowing, and peers down the hallway.

In the distance, Gaius paws at the linen closet, tail twitching with the beginnings of agitation.

Merlin leans away from the wall and the other man, hands belonging to himself once more. He hisses out Gaius' name, doing his best to be quiet, hurrying out.

The kitten mewls his sudden protest, scooped up in the cradle of Merlin's right hand and wiggling his body fiercely. Merlin holds him against his chest, fleece jumper snagging with Gaius' claws catching on the front of it, and looks into the tiny, racked closet.

Within, the fledging dragon— stars and heavens, she is _really_ there— curls on Gaius' bed, deep asleep with her red stout flaring with each intake of breath. The innocence brings on a lip-quirk. She is no malicious bloodshed, no crime, no _terror_.

Arthur senses the moment the warlock's attention diverts. Hands gone, the warmth they left behind fading, and Arthur's finally breathing his own air through damp lips. He almost asks, but when his eyes follow Merlin scurrying into the other room, Arthur's mouth presses into a line of exasperation.

Of course, it's the bloody cat.

Realisation dawns on Arthur, like waking up from a dream.

Wait.

There's a _dragon_ in the closet.

Arthur runs that knowledge through his mind again—a creature of _legend_ is living under this roof.

"Still tuckered out," Merlin informs him, returning to Arthur in the hallway, a sense of ease loosening him. "I thought she might be. Waking up from a centuries-old nap would do that to someone, wouldn't it?" The familiar, knowing smirk points to Arthur's direction.

Arthur keeps his face impassive.

"I hardly blame it for sleeping through this," he comments dryly.

Merlin looks down at golden, squirming fur, clasping Gaius in both hands this time.

"Should we go get some breakfast, hmm?" he asks, low and sing-songing. He shimmies Gaius' paws for emphasis. " _Whatchu think_? Should we teach this clotpole how to cook his omelets?"

Another pathetic objection to being manhandled in the form of a meow.

Merlin's fingertips dance idly against the pads of soft, pliable paws. Affectionately stroking along where kitten claws are sheathed. Gaius regularly put up with the shenanigans, ever since finding a home with him, though usually with more long-suffering tolerance.

He's in no such mood now, feeling mildly agitated by the unfamiliar smell coming from the linen closet, and snatched up by his owner's hands. The kitten squirms harder, back bones flexing, tail flopping.

"Oi," Merlin says down to his pet, murmuring with a suggestion of amused chiding. Hmm, almost as grumpy as the other blond of the household.

"Have I ever mentioned how _weird_ you are, Merlin?"

At the dull luster in Arthur's eyes and the surly words, a terse, higher pitched laugh leaves Merlin's lips.

Weird?

That's a new one Merlin doesn't think he's heard before. Of the many things he has been accused of… "weird" has to be, strangely, the _kindest_.

He lets out a low snort of air, gleeful smile locking on Merlin's expression.

"Is that prat-talk for 'your impressions are completely brilliant'?" Even staring right into the unimpressed look from Arthur, Merlin's slow-building, sunny morning disposition does not waver.

"C'mon," he says, more quietly and straight-toned, knocking the jut of his elbow to Arthur's arm before heading back towards the kitchen.

*


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are right back on track, folks! December has gotten somewhat busy, and I've got a couple fests I'm riding, but no worries - I've got a chapter schedule going. :) At the bottom of the fic is the announcement of the next date! I hope your month has been lovely so far and that you are feeling lovely! ♥ THIS IS WHERE THINGS GET A BIT MORE INTERESTING FOR THE CHARACTERS. STICK AROUND. Any comment/questions are always appreciated!!
> 
> I'd like to thank [KimliPan](http://archiveofourown.org/users/KimliPan/pseuds/KimliPan/) for betaing and everyone who has supported me so far. As well as my Britpick [ememmyem](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ememmyem/pseuds/ememmyem) who saved my neck. Half of this fic wouldn't exist without [marlena_darling](http://archiveofourown.org/users/marlena_darling/pseuds/marlena_darling) and I wanna say thank you for taking this journey with me and you've been a best friend to me. I love you lots and this is ours.

*

The first round of breakfast omelets are nearly charred, thanks to Arthur's lack of culinary expertise and ability to gauge the delicate settings on a hob.

(And yes, there are clear differences in time periods and methods of food preparation, but it's simple instructions or, really, _listening_ to Merlin that goes right over the king's head.)

Merlin rolls his eyes to Arthur's tensed back and shoulders, making an unconscious tut and leading the other man away from his perfectly workable kitchen appliance before more damage can be wrought. At least opening the cramped window gets rid of the dingy odour.

He put a little too much red pepper into his own omelette (the upward lip-tilt from Arthur as he ate is satisfaction enough) and spends a half an hour with an irritatingly burning tongue.

Towards the end of the morning hours, Merlin's still feeling rather _chipper_. And why the hell not? The aggravating desire to be "properly snogged" has been quelled, his stomach is full of home-cooked meal. Arthur is _alive_ and well and has a full stomach, too.

Now they talk.

"You were serious?" Arthur questions, eyebrows raising in disbelief. "You're not going to make me _clean_ the bloody floor."

"You lost the wager, mate; therefore… you… lost the wager," Merlin explains, in a voice saved for younger children with short attention spans (and he prepares for the accusations of patronizing royalty. _Again_ ). "Scrubbing the floors and doing the dishes. Those were the terms you agreed to. I did not use sorcery to win, you know that. I don't honestly remember _touching_ a longbow since the…"

A pause hovers between them, Arthur flopped down on the threadbare couch with arms folded and a chafed line to his forehead, and Merlin standing a few feet away. Dark blue eyes glance up, unseeing to the wall, and he mentally counts it out in his head.

"… Yes, the 18th century, that's right. Not since the Scottish and English Parliaments joined together—they should have left the wine out of it."

The musing goes unacknowledged. Merlin hears a displeased noise. He doesn't care if Arthur whines or scoffs, because… well, rules are rules, aren't they? And he _knows_ His Dollopheaded Majesty Arthur Pendragon has far too much integrity to break them in this case.

Merlin rubs a hand to his neck, flashing a good-humoured smile.

The lightweight, apple-green hoodie rides up at the hem, also flashing some of the cotton fabric of a bright red t-shirt beneath the hoodie. Warm catches of sunlight fleck into dark, cropped hair.

" _Yes_ , I get it, your skills are profound," Arthur drawls.

 _Three centuries_ , his arse.

Another grumble builds in his throat as Merlin babbles on about more he doesn't understand—whatever the hell a _Parliament_ was. Arthur's sure he will find out sooner than later. At the moment he's too distracted trying to find a lawful way to worm out of this promise.

He entertains the idea of pulling Merlin down on the sofa with him, perhaps making him realise they were better off _there_ , but his integrity shoots the thought down rather quickly. He's not going to resort to some cheap tricks in order to get out of chores.

Even if it's _tempting_.

"Besides," Merlin adds, gesturing out behind him with an open hand towards the front door, "Don't be thick, it's a right state with the mud—"

The last syllable rolling off Merlin's tongue stalls, the rest of the conversation drifting lost as an eerie stillness overtakes him.

He wants to yell suddenly, wave his arms about, move from being rooted on the spot.

 _Something_ … something is…

Unprepared for it, a splitting, knifing pain twists inside Merlin's chest, shooting white-hot lightning for his right temple. His magic echos the sensation, but links it as non-physical, shrunk and panicked as if wounded, like… it's been punctured through.

No. Vision somersaulting him. A charging sweep of lightheadedness rocks him on his feet.

 _No_.

Merlin bends forward, clutching tightly at the side of his head, fingers scraping into hair. Never realizing the very word comes out of his mouth, edging with distress, before the remaining oxygen leaves his lungs and a soundless scream replaces it.

Only seconds, perhaps near a minute, but the timing of the assault on Merlin's senses feels days-long. It blinds him from Arthur. His body decides to crumble, but Merlin's hands grip at his bowing knees, keeping him standing and from experiencing relief.

But relief _does_ come, as temporary pain vanishes in ebbs.

It's _broken_. One of the outer protection wards. Someone—some _thing_ —blasted it apart, leaving an invisible, bleeding gap. It shouldn't have been possible unless…

Outside the cottage walls, the wind begins to pick up, howling low.

*

Arthur notices the change instantly. No longer a small smile in place, nor Merlin's eyes focusing.

He needs no more motivation to move, because the instant Merlin doubles over and the ragged ' _no_ ' reaches his ears, Arthur's on his feet and at Merlin's side.

Hands grab the warlock, fingers clasping onto a shoulder and his side in case Merlin's knees buckle. Arthur's frown is prominent, but his eyes are dark in concern, not irritation.

The reaction had been so fast—Arthur had no time to search for a reason.

"Merlin." The name comes out low and rumbling, like a stormy wave crashing against rocks as Arthur grasps tighter at the other man. The name went against deaf ears, and Arthur's chest constricts in panic more as he repeats it. He ducks his head, trying to meet Merlin at eye-level.

Arthur can hear the winds picking up outside, the distant chime of an object in the garden signaling it, and for a moment he wonders if Merlin's responsible.

And if so, what does that _mean_?

" _Merlin_. Speak to me. What's happening?" Is he alright? What is wrong with him? Does Arthur have other concerns?

Arthur is left in the dark, and the only way to lose that is if Merlin _answers_ him.

Merlin's fingers dig themselves into the fabric of his sweater, tugging him forward. Arthur tightens his grasp to keep them both steady. Merlin's strong enough to let him know the other man wouldn't be keeling over, but he also knows when someone is trying to hold back pain.

There's no indication of what kind he is in. Merlin isn't crying out, and the twisted expression Arthur sees at first dwindles into tension.

*

Stillness zaps from inside the room, leaving a crawling at his forearms and a nasty, metallic tang to the back of Merlin's throat.

The rest of the lightning-hot pain disappears from Merlin's temple, along with the rush of lightheadedness. While he's thankful for feeling momentarily steadier, it leaves him full of distorted heaviness.

Merlin's knees quake to his own weight, under his perspiring hands. There's strength enough from reeling over face-first to the ground. Arthur's name forces itself out of him, short-winded and barely able to conceal the mixture of paled horror and relief in a single breath.

 _Arthur_.

He's here. So close that Merlin feels a warm burst of air to his face, _warmth_ , that beautiful mortal warmth.

Fingers to the material of Arthur's sweater, pulling hard and trembling. Arthur's fingers respond, balancing him.

Merlin lifts his head slowly, eyes attempting to clear. The concentration of wrinkles to Arthur's summer-gold face deepen as the warlock's voice croaks out, "Someone's— _nn_ —here," Merlin's lips and teeth clench, "I can f-feel it."

They are all in danger, more than Arthur understands—but Merlin has _him_.

That is reason enough to fight, to protect him. Now that he finally has the _chance_ to do right.

Breaking down protection spells is no easy task. It shouldn't have been _possible_ … unless the magic-wielder possessed remarkable skill. Those scarce few who still carried and practiced the most ancient, strongest form of magic to this world—the magic of the _Old Religion_.

It narrows down the list quickly. (Merlin suspected on occasion that his outer wards sealing off the very edges between other lands and his forest _could_ disintegrate.)

He doesn't have time to prepare, doesn't have time to explain everything.

And doesn't have all the right answers to the questions undoubtedly throttling and shadowing Arthur's mind and concerns and fears. Not until Merlin can be absolutely certain who is coming.

The wind howls as if distanced from the cottage.

Swallowing down his heartbeat, Merlin adjusts his grip, one hand still on his knee and the other loosening on Arthur's collar. The next several words sound so _fragile_ registering to Merlin's ears.

"Tell me you trust me," he murmurs, gaze open and sedate on the other man. Arthur's mouth gapes slightly. If a confused protest is to come, Merlin will eliminate the possibility. " _No—please_ , Arthur," he urges softly, his left hand joining the right, palms sliding to the back of Arthur's neck.

A troubled look.

"I need to hear it from you."

It hardly clears up anything for Arthur. Someone was nearby, yes—there's bound to be people in the _woods_. But why does it have that effect on Merlin? Why does it matter so much?

_Tell me you trust me._

There's no describing the sudden churning motion in his stomach. Merlin's tone so little, so not _Merlin_ and Arthur has even more questions than before.

… So why is there a hesitation when he thinks of his answer?

Merlin has no reason to give him any doubt. Not anymore. Arthur has come to terms with the fact that his friend has magic. He knows Merlin is a Dragonlord. Yet… Arthur doesn't know everything.

Every fiber of his being feels something isn't quite right, that Arthur's still missing something, and once again the question remains.

 _Does_ he?

"I trust you."

Arthur hears his own voice, tone low, solemn, and full of meaning. He does. He always has. More than anyone.

The confusion never fades from Arthur's eyes, but they read _sincerity_. Having it laced in those little three words, more reassuring, more paramount than a declaration of love.

Merlin's entire body sags its relief, shoulders dropping.

The earnest light to the blue eyes meeting his already intensified. Despite not indicating an understanding of what is happening, Arthur _trusts_ Merlin to do what is _right_. For them. For him. And… he just needed the verbal confirmation, the grounding reality of it.

His breathing shakes.

"Okay." Merlin nods, more or less speaking this to himself, sliding his fingers up towards Arthur's hair and pulling their foreheads together. The tingling heat of flesh _calms_ him. Merlin repeats the _okay_ , softly this time between himself and Arthur. Reveling in the sensation of a faint heartbeat beneath the solid barrier.

Merlin needed this more than he realises, like an act of selfishness, like he has been starved of the other man.

Maybe… god, _did_ he?… Did he need Arthur more, need to indulge Arthur's spoken words and his comforting presence, more than his king needs Merlin's?

His gut clenches, forming like a boulder inside him. Yes… it wouldn't be such a stretch of the imagination, now would it?…

No. No, he can't drag that venomous thought on.

"The woods isn't safe as it is. I felt… it must have been one of the magical wards collapsing. It happened… too fast…" Merlin says, regaining his footing and breaking his hold on the other man.

He sorts through his memory for a few seconds— _centuries_ worth of reversal spells, cloaking enchantments, amulets, elemental forces—

Merlin's knees end up falling, hitting the floorboards as he reaches with a whole arm underneath the tattered skirt of the couch. (Something along the lines of ' _And you're planning on handling this by hiding under there?_ ' lingers on Arthur's lips.)

And pulls out from underneath a very familiar-looking staff.

The hawthorn wood, ancient and thick, feels strong. Reassuring in its dense weight, in the impression of magical, Oghams words engraved.

_**Abas ocus bithe duthected bithlane.** _

The finespun circumstances of life and death surely to come into play now.

Merlin fists the sidhe staff into his right hand, the very one taken from Sophia and that killed her father. With some concentration, and a flickering push of Merlin's sorcery, the large gem atop glows dully, shimmering blue.

The same ghastly colour reflecting to Arthur's features.

"Whoever it is wants _in_ that badly," he explains, watching his companion stiffen. "They may well be at the gates. That's why I need you to stay here. Magic is _my_ fight. This isn't a test of your honour and your bravery, Arthur. Let me face them."

(You're better than me. You can't die. You _can't_.)

"I need _you_ to guard Tiamat."

(I need you to stay alive for me; I need you to stay out of my way.)

"Protect her, if…"

The rest of the sentence almost isn't worth mentioning at all. The idea of _dying_ now is far too surreal, on top of impossible. The corner of Merlin's mouth quirk humorless.

" _If_."

The anger inside Arthur is startling— occurring like a rising wave. Swelling without noticing, and then crashing down around him.

" _Stay here?_ " Arthur repeats, eyes heated on Merlin.

Is he serious?

Of course he is; Merlin sounds more _serious_ than Arthur has ever dreamed of hearing.

He feels a sense of dread trickle down his spine as the word ' _If_ ' hangs in the air, as if it was some sort of possibility.

It _wasn't—_ they have gone over this, but even so Arthur vowed long ago. ' _If_ ' was never going to happen if he could stop it.

To be told ' _To guard Tiamat_ ' hardly goes over as well as it ever would. To think Merlin even _believes_ it's worth a try proves to Arthur just how long it has been since they had been with each other.

The severe tone from Merlin is ignored, as is the guarded eyes.

Instead Arthur takes a step forward, his shoulders tight as he gives a sharp shake of his head. " _No_. This is not about honour or bravery. This is about not letting you _face_ this alone. The dragon can hold its own in the cupboard—you're the one I'm concerned about."

"I'm not waiting inside like some bloody _maiden_. Magic has not been able to scare me off before, or have you forgotten?"

He has already said it, but the word kept repeating.

 _No_.

Arthur will not allow it. This is what he's good for.

Even in this mess of the future, the overwhelming tangle of new roles and new lives, Arthur is destined to _protect_ what he cares for. If he can do nothing else, it's to help fight.

His point has been made, and will continue to stand until Merlin realises Arthur will take no other answer.

*

There isn't a fingerbreadth of time to waste explaining this.

He wants to go back to several minutes ago. To when Arthur leaned back into him, when Merlin could feel a heartbeat through their foreheads, when Arthur's light blue eyes weren't accusatory and his jaw tightened.

Arthur isn't lying. He trusts Merlin.

But that doesn't give Arthur the inclination to _agree_ with Merlin's instructions.

Perhaps it's still a "King" frame-of-mind. Or perhaps he can't stubbornly work his head around Merlin being able to handle it himself. Or—Arthur doesn't want Merlin to go _alone_. They never went alone. Patrols or facing enemies in battles.

At least… to Arthur's mind and to his own memories.

Merlin truly lost count how many times Camelot had to be saved, essentially using just himself as the only aid. His magic or quick thinking, it relied on _him_.

He faced many dangers, without Arthur, without anyone, as the centuries bled together. Mostly left without a choice, not wanting to risk fragile lives. Risk more death. And… it was fine.

He's… fine.

Something like a twinge of dark awareness comes at him, aching his side. Merlin unconsciously reaches for it, rubbing the area.

It's righteous indignation on Arthur's face. At the mention of concern for Merlin, the warlock stifles back a disgruntled snorting noise, not bothering to interrupt.

Somehow, Arthur has to understand it's _reality_.

"I know you're not afraid. At the very least, you're good at hiding when you're afraid," Merlin says, slowly. Voice soft and grim. "But you should heed more caution."

His eyes lock on the dully glowing staff, scrutinizing it instead of letting his expression bend under the heavy weight of his emotions. "You nearly died every time you fought against magic. Either offering up your life or circumstances beyond control. Ones I nearly failed you in. I can't stomach watching any of that happen again, not again."

Arthur expects a grimace, that scrunch of nose that marks Merlin's open protest followed by a loud rebuttal. But instead, there's nothing. No change in expression, nor does his voice rise. Merlin doesn't even look at him, instead staring at the glowing rock on the staff.

It's his voice. Quiet, slow and steady, but not reassuring. It's enough to make Arthur pause, the words attempting to sink in through the pounding in his chest.

Despite Merlin's tone, it does nothing to quell Arthur's anger.

Blond eyebrows arch sharply, eyes narrowing. The irritation flares once more, and it takes a great deal not to interrupt. In fact, he isn't sure why he hasn't cut him off already. It doesn't matter what Merlin tells him, whether it is criticism of his own strategies or his grief for Arthur's shortcomings against magic.

His answer is _still_ the same.

"I've fought against magic before you." Arthur's voice snarls. "Why even tell me this?"

"Because there's _nothing_ here worth sacrificing your life for," Merlin replies, grimly.

And that's when Arthur's world feels like it leans on its axis.

The simplicity in how Merlin voices this, feels it in himself—how deep his self-deprecation goes, it's liberating while at the same time humiliating.

(Who is he to put that realisation on Arthur?)

Only one responsibility matters in the end of this: Protect everyone inside this cottage. Whatever it takes.

Merlin's eyes gaze at the other man, faintly woeful.

*

Arthur's lips part as his body desperately tries to regain the ability to breathe. Merlin can't even _look_ at him as the few strands of rope left holding Arthur up snap.

There's no kingdom. There are no citizens, looking up to him as their guardian and protector. There are no knights, ready to follow him into battle, no brothers in arms left to save and pick up after a fight. There is no Guinevere. No lingering hope for a sister lost to him all those years ago.

No wars on bordering lands that needed him to settle, or foreigners coming to him for aid, for the legends of the Round Table spread far and wide.

Legends.

_That's all he is._

It's not only the gravity of his statement that hits Arthur.

Merlin doesn't believe there is _anything_ for him here. He _knows_ there's nothing for him, not anything worthy taking a stand for. Merlin wants to think that he is not enough for Arthur.

Blue eyes, enlarged and shining as he tries to regain himself. Arthur's mind screams.

 _You_.

Merlin is what he has now, but either doesn't see it or refuses to. Arthur can't decide what hurts more.

The chance never comes, because his mind crashes in a whirlwind. Merlin does not pause to allow Arthur to regain his thoughts. Perhaps that's the reason behind biting words in the first place.

"Forgive me, old friend."

With a swipe of a raised hand, Arthur's feet fly out from under him. It sends him falling hard to the settee, knocking the wind out of him.

He gasps, heaving in. Arthur rolls slowly onto his side with a choked groan. An arm wraps around his stomach.

Merlin _used_ magic against him.

The sweep of fury passes through his body like wildfire, spreading before he regains his breath.

Merlin—he won't do this, won't _sacrifice_ himself for a damned dragon, or toss Arthur aside in attempt to make his point.

Stumbling to his feet, Arthur coughs, rushing towards the door as Merlin vanishes. But, of course, nothing is ever that easy. He grabs at the door's handle and turns.

It jams.

" _Merlin!_ "

His heart pumps loudly in his ears, the noise of the growing storm outside dimming by the tycoon raging inside himself. Arthur makes a frustrated grunt as he shakes the door harder, attempting to break it free. But it's _enchanted_. It has to be.

In the back of his mind, he's reminded of the beliefs shoved upon him, of how magic _weakened_ normal humans. Reduced them to saplings forced to wait for the rain under the canopy of larger, more powerful trees.

This powerlessness is _awful_.

Arthur's shoulder collides roughly with the door, once, twice, but still it refuses to budge. "Merlin!" he calls out again, roaring through the otherwise quiet cottage. "You _can't_ do this!"

Nothing.

Muffled noises from outside—the screech of what he thinks is _laughter_.

Arthur rams his fist at the front door, his knuckles stinging on impact. Merlin is out there alone, allowing himself to be given as potential sacrifice, and Arthur is left _trapped_ on the inside.

*

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UPDATE: Chapter 26 is scheduled for December 19th!


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAAAAAND WELL SHIT. They're not exactly happy, BUT HEY, WHO IS LOVING QUEEN MAB? I couldn't resist bringing in the Faerie Court and the fact that she dethroned Titiania, and Merlin's FAMILIAR with how the court works AND her. What she's implying he did is serious business. I'm excited to hear from you guys, and any comments/thought are appreciated! I hope your December/holidays are not so stressful and a lot of fun! Also, I wanna see Star Wars omg. :(
> 
>  **IMPORTANT** : The first year anniversary of this fic is coming up SOON! Next month I believe... on the 25th! 
> 
> I wanna celebrate it with a nice big chapter ofc, but also, I wanna give YOU GUYS something extra! Everyone here and on FFN who has taken the time to comment - whether it's back in Chapter 1 or even this newest one - if you have commented at ANY point in time, you are qualified for being entered in a prize drawing! 
> 
> _Three_ people will win a variety of promos or gifsets or even a writing request! It's up to you when you win! All you have to do is enter **[HERE](https://rie4.typeform.com/to/QBpEdm)**! I'll give more details later! Enter only once please! I repeat, you must enter **[HERE](https://rie4.typeform.com/to/QBpEdm)**!
> 
> I'd like to thank [KimliPan](http://archiveofourown.org/users/KimliPan/pseuds/KimliPan/) for betaing and everyone who has supported me so far. As well as my Britpick [ememmyem](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ememmyem/pseuds/ememmyem) who saved my neck. Half of this fic wouldn't exist without [marlena_darling](http://archiveofourown.org/users/marlena_darling/pseuds/marlena_darling) and I wanna say thank you for taking this journey with me and you've been a best friend to me. I love you lots and this is ours.

*

In seconds, Merlin is already out the front, shutting the door behind him. He faces the outside of it, pressing his free hand to the wood.

" _Clústor_ ," he mumbles, ensuring the secure locking of every door and window, hearing the clicks and clangs within. " _Cnyll fandung_."

Despite what he may have assumed, the sudden gusts of wind are not pushing and shrieking against the cottage itself. What makes that clearer, that it is no natural elemental wind, is the yard. Not a blade of grass is out of place by the howling, invisible force beyond the gates—it's undoubtedly barred out by his warding spells.

His protective magic hums angrily, combating the howling.

Just as Merlin removes his hand from the door, the wind begins to die.

The gate slows its knocking against the boulder-structure as a mahogany-skinned hand holds it firmly outside the barrier.

A woman, thin-boned and statuesque. Unremarkable at first glance. But she's _human_ -looking, with hair dark and gleaming like charcoal coals, spiraled and ribboned with twists of mauve-hued, tattered fabric.

A velvet cloak of the same color skims at her delicate, bare feet. The long, laced sleeves flap lightly around her.

"Emrys," she speaks, loud enough to reach him from the distance. The gravity of this is like being punched straight in the gut.

Merlin's entire body cringes, his eyes taking in the three broad lines running down her neck, inked brown and—this isn't a nightmare, no. If he shuts his eyes, she will still be there.

The damned _Faerie Queen_.

"Don't pretend you can't hear me." He doesn't even known he has, eyes squeezing up tightly.

 _How is_ —

"Your sorcery can block me out, but not my voice, can it?" A bell-like laugh, saccharine and _hideous_.

The cottage door behind Merlin is unmoved. Stone-silent.

Just as he needs it to be. The silencing enchantment holds. Merlin dismisses the suspicion nagging at the back of his mind that… it does not herald the same result on the other side of the door.

Once Arthur regains his bearings, he will be furious. At himself, at Merlin, at the entire situation. Probably more to do with Merlin.

Something feverous and ugly worms its way into Merlin's stomach.

That is… it's fine.

( _It isn't._ )

It _has_ to be, Merlin answers in return. Arthur can be eternally angry until the sun extinguishes right out. Just as long as he's _safe_.

"You underestimate me, Mab," the warlock says, deadpan, eyes reopening. "We know what happened when you made that mistake the very first time."

Two of her fingers run meditatively along the tattooed lines on her neck.

"And yet, here I am," Queen Mab says, her smile charming and wicked. "Standing before you. You tried to escape my watchful eye, didn't you, Emrys? All those centuries ago. But in the end, you took the bait."

… Of course she left the egg for him.

 _Of course_ she did. Why hadn't he seen it? Who else could have known him that intimately?

The spring green box in the clear glass box. The red, feather snout resting to Merlin's chest. How warm, how _alive_ she was. How fragile her magic thrummed around her, swaddled by Merlin's own.

He loved her. Merlin barely knew the fledgling, but he knew he _loved_ her with every fibre of him. And there would be no room for loss.

"How did you find me?"

"I hardly think it matters," Mab replies, patience in her expression. "The fact remains that I did." She laughs again. "It's good to see the years haven't stolen away your brazen manner. The clever _little_ one with a mind's eye. It would make this… far less enthralling."

Merlin tilts his head, careful to keep any flashes of his provocation from showing.

"And you, then?" he asks, words forming an icy shield. "Are you still in service of Oberon while the rightful Queen is banished? Or is he among the living?" Merlin snorts. "I can't understand how anyone could _breathe_ with your greed and your madness poisoning the very air of the court."

Something electric, low and pulsing dangerously outside the cottage's protective wards. A dark, wan smile tugs up the corners of Merlin's mouth. He moves a step on, hawthorne staff digging into soil. "You never had an ounce of loyalty in you," he says. " _Banishing_ your queen was never enough. You needed her title. _Consorting_ with your king for power."

At his blatant accusation, her own red lips curl up as if satisfied.

"No more than you would have done, I'm afraid," Queen Mab says airily.

Embarrassment and a deep-kindled hatred fires through him.

How _DARE_ —

Merlin's nostrils flare, as he sucks in a deep breath to ease the screams warping inside himself to fell her on the spot, or to summon the extent of his magic to shove her _out_ of his beloved forest.

"I have never sought to gain power," he says finally, face rigid.

"Power and influence are one and the same, Emrys. You wished for your magic to be accepted in the hearts of men. In your _King's_ heart." Her grey eyes flick over Merlin's shoulders. He straightens them, chin lifting. "Your kind were thankful once for your efforts, until you cast us out and _denied_ us the recognition we deserved," she announces.

"I did no such thing," Merlin argues softly.

"You tried to seal away _our_ magic for good."

"To keep it _safe_."

Her next words cut bitter. "Is that what you tell yourself to make it _EASIER_!?" she hisses out. For no more than a minute, her plain, human teeth sharpen to pearly fangs stretching her mouth, eyes a sickly red.

And just like that, her true, hellish visage melts away.

Merlin's blood roils against the impulse to stay rooted where he is, helping sharpen the pounding ache twinging at his left side.

A dreamy, low sigh.

Mab gestures thoughtfully to him. "But the _past_ is the past," she says. "Can't change a thing that, can we?" Her brilliant human teeth in a fierce grin. "Lies and deceit, Emrys—that is what you will _always_ bring to others. Why would anyone _believe_ in someone like you?"

When Merlin does not answer, his blue eyes stoic on her, she tsks as if the warlock did something mildly irritating and rude. "Am I to believe the pleasantries are now over? Would you at least invite me in?"

The inquiry hangs over them. He mirrors her formidable grin, remaining motionless. "Why are you really here, Mab?"

"Such a _silly_ question when I trust you already know."

*

The silence of the cottage clashes with the thrumming inside Arthur's chest.

His fists continue their rampage on the solid wooden door, the hits that should have rattled it doing nothing. It's _useless_. The magic bars him inside, trapped and furious, while Merlin stands just out of reach on the other side. His palms expands, fingers grasping the surface when Arthur stops.

Damn him. Damn him for being so proud, and _foolish_ —

—and for being exactly like Arthur.

Except he wouldn't _lock_ Merlin away, Arthur's mind protests. He wouldn't keep him trapped _against_ his own will; he trusted Merlin time and time again to come into battle, when he knew him to be an inexperienced manservant.

Now, that same gesture has not been returned.

Perhaps… because, Merlin doesn't think Arthur can handle this magic.

Arthur _knows_ different, and the hurt from Merlin's doubt, his own worry, and about Merlin's actions keeps the anger flooding in his veins.

Merlin can't hear him, or at least is doing a damn good job of pretending not to. Arthur also figures there's no point in checking the other doors. He shoves away from the entrance, looking around. Nothing inside will cue him into what is going on outside. For a moment, he looks at the cabinet where the hatchling still sleeps, oblivious to the _chaos_ it causes all around it.

He feels the sudden urge to move towards it, but his legs don't move.

Arthur _could_ go after the dragon, startle it. It would bring Merlin inside, away from whatever was out there. It was Merlin's motivation, so didn't it make sense?

He quickly turns his head away, frowning. No. The creature is one to be feared in the future, and is the source of these problems—but otherwise fairly useless as far as his problems go right now. Arthur is stuck, and he _hates_ it.

It's then that he hears Merlin's voice.

Unemotional, cold like a dagger of ice. And then a woman by the sounds of it. They talk with none of it friendly. Words shaped in the form of weapons, and verbally they clash.

There's a tournament ahead and this is the opening round.

Arthur presses his ear to the door in attempt to know what's happening. Until he spots the window.

He seizes his chance, seeing a way to get to Merlin. But like everything else, when Arthur pulls at the frame, it remains shut. Arthur curses to himself, arm striking the wood paneling.

" _No more than you would have done, I'm afraid."_

Merlin so boldly protests a search for power—something Arthur hardly doubts, but the more she speaks, Arthur finds that his eyes lose focus. Merlin _couldn't_ have tried to hide magic away.

All he had ever wanted was for magic to be _accepted_. He wanted to be who he was without the fear or death.

 _That_ is what Merlin stands for, as Arthur realised so much later in his life than he should have. Merlin _couldn't_ have done that to his own people.

Yet, his pure intentions couldn't _always_ escape the harsh tainting of life.

They are both angry with Merlin for far different reasons, but in the core… it's still genuine. And Merlin's voice carries the same when he reminded Arthur that he had nothing left here.

He can't see Merlin's face or judge his expression, but the warlock makes no attempt to deny her accusations of lies and deceit. He does not try to prove what Arthur believes to be true—that despite it all, Merlin does not lie to him fully.

*

The edges to Merlin's cold, dangerous grin wilt.

"You can't have it," he murmurs, fingers clenching to the sidhe staff.

She chuckles.

"Who said I required your permission?"

Merlin's voice booms out with all the rightful authority he can muster, "I am _the_ _Last Dragonlord_ , and if you ever want to see the light of another day, you will leave this place—do you understand?"

(An empty threat, empty as her soul, as perhaps his own.)

The fae traces her human, mahogany-skinned fingers over the gate. Unable to reach over the rune-carved boulders.

"I know you have the egg," she tells him calmly. "That you may call it to life. After all, how could _**the Last Dragonlord**_ resist such a precious gift?" Her eyes light up. "Your wards against me are powerful, but _that_ very well may be your own undoing."

Just as cryptically, Merlin hears her whisper inside his head, syllables echoing within the dark space, _{"This is your warning."}_

_{"You have no claim to the dragon."}_

_{"I can hurt you, Emrys. It will leave more than a scratch this time."}_

As if on cue, the ache to Merlin's left side right below his breastbone doubles in strength. He grits his teeth, refusing to move to hold it.

The blue gem atop his staff flickers to life, pulsing a low glow.

"You will leave now, Meadhbh. You will not harm anyone inside. Or I _swear_ , there won't be a shred of you left to recover," Merlin says, as calculating and dreadful as his unblinking, pointed gaze on her.

The mention of her true name _shudders_ her body.

"No one inside this cottage shall be harmed," Mab eventually agrees, eyebrows lowered when Merlin's staff does not relinquish its menacing luster and his hand does not lower from directing its end to her. "You understand if anything I'm as good as my word, Emrys."

That much is true. The fae, and the sidhe, do not take promises leniently. But Merlin hardly trusts how quick this promise surfaces.

"Do you remember the twelfth century?"

Merlin's hand slowly drops from the air, his eyes narrowing at the softly spoken question. Mab's lip curls, her mouth opening to an appreciative, soundless 'ah'.

"You _do_. It's very hard to forget," she says. "Nasty little mortals running about, flocking to their Christianity. They spouted creeds as if it would heal their putrescence existence. And then, they chose to eradicate _themselves_. Saved the rest of us the trouble, wouldn't you say?"

Merlin snorts aloud, unamused. "And yet… you walk around like _this_."

She squares her shoulders under her velvet cloak, as if preening herself under the attention. "You don't appear…. favourable of my other forms." A small, cruel smile touches her expression. "Atlantes had the right idea all along. To let humanity slowly and painfully _rot_ away."

( _Burned flesh and hair clogged up his throat and nostrils, sweeping on a breeze. The peaceful streets now littered with carts of the dead._ )

( _Or the near-dead, still able to whimper past their boil-inflamed and pus-smeared lips as the living piled them into the roaring pyre._ )

"… Why would you provoke me with that name?" Merlin asks, pushing down the storm building up inside him. "It won't change my mind."

"He was _your_ apprentice, _your_ student, Emrys." Mab's eyes shine gleefully, taking in the slip of numbness in his tone. "Powerful enough to create a disease that wiped out half of a population—"

Blue eyes widen, eerily bright and hot with anger.

"—Be silent," he growls. "or I will silence you for good."

"Touched a nerve, have I?"

Mab's dove-grey eyes peer once more over his shoulder in the direction of the cottage, as if something deeply fascinates her about it. He wishes he could veil it more from being so open.

"What does history truly understand about _you_ … Lord Emrys Ambrosius?"

An ugly jolt of burning nausea creeps over him.

"Do children know that _you_ educated a dark sorcerer, and sent him free to roam this world? That it took several centuries to discover his plans, and by then…" She doesn't need to go on. Doesn't need to go into the specifics of the toil, of the death and suffering that followed.

He already knows how deep it goes.

( _Unbridled interest and admiration in Atlantes' youthful, green eyes._ )

( _The collective screams of agony and tormented heartbreak, reverberating across Europe. Reverberating inside Merlin's own chest, eyes wet, as his pale hands smoothed over a patch of fresh dirt._ )

( _The same green eyes, pitiless, sealed off by the bark of an oak tree._ )

Blood cannot be erased, not from skin, not from memories.

"That has always been your weakness, Emrys. Your blind trust in others. And it cost you dearly in the end." She scoffs, disgusted by the very idea. "To be faulted, to _love_ and despair is to be _human_."

A soft, grunting laugh escapes Merlin.

"I'm thankful for that," he rasps out. "You fail to remember that I _was_ human once, Mab." The corners of his mouth perk. "I can feel anger, and fear, and trust, and it preys on my mind. I did not desire a seat on a throne or a ridiculous ceremonial title, nor will I ever."

Mab's face twists up.

"Atlantes took… _everything_ from me. You will never understand how deep that _human_ despair turned me."

"That was your mistake, boy."

"As _yours_ was coming here."

The hawthorn staff flares with his magic, drawing the energy and aiming for his gates. The flash of blue strikes nothing, merely sizzling the tips of grass.

She's gone.

Relief and anguish crash over him, like a sensation of drowning, leaving Merlin shaken and gasping for air. A hand presses over his eyes, fingertips pinching over the bridge of his nose to steady himself.

Mab is finally _gone_ … and it still feels like she won.

Once his head feels slightly clearer, he can't get back inside fast enough, muttering the counter-spell to unlock the front door.

*

Despite everything, Arthur assumes this is about the dragon.

What else can it be—unless Merlin is keeping more from him? None of this started until the egg came to their attention. The worst problem they faced before was Merlin's injuries and trying to keep Arthur alive and out of the path of anymore speeding _cars_.

The realisation sinks in his core—none of this would be happening if it was not for the _creature_.

He was livid, yes, but not bitter. There's no changing that now. All roads might have led to this. Merlin would not _abandon_ the last of the dragons.

Suddenly, a noise like a roar from outside, and Arthur jolts, eyes snapping onto the form of Merlin outside the window.

That's _him_. Merlin, _his_ Merlin, but not quite.

This is the man that who _summoned_ dragons, with voice of power, rage, and threat.

Merlin's shouting quiets his enemy, but her words still reach through the glass, drawing Arthur in. She mocks him so freely that Arthur feels his jaw go rigid.

She _knew_ Merlin would have the dragon's egg—was it possible that this was _her_ plan?

Arthur's mind does not linger on her intentions for long. He has plenty of questions shouting in his mind, demanding answers, but there is no one to give them.

Frustration rebuilds as he watches Merlin's hands stiff at his sides. She opened a wound, one that Arthur does not understand.

He does not know the history of the time after his death; Arthur couldn't know if anything she says is truth. But why would this woman lie now?

There is so much grief there for a moment, cloaked by her malice. Arthur listens as this Meadhbh describes the chaos, the pain and suffering imagined onto his own people. _His_ Camelot, cursed, disease-riddled and wiped away from a cause Arthur _couldn't_ stop.

Merlin _taught_ this man they spoke of. This Atlantes, the one who so mercilessly wiped out innocent people.

Someone would have been one of Arthur's greatest enemies in the time of Camelot. He learned it all from _Merlin_.

Merlin was capable of nurturing such _evil_ , and not even realising it until too late.

Arthur forces himself away from the window. He stands behind the couch, hand clenched over his mouth, fighting to separate his thoughts.

Everything crashes down. Tethers used to keep himself together are ripping apart. His memories feel like _propaganda_. His views on the faithful person he _needs_ warping.

The front door clangs open.

And there's no fighting his returning anger; only moments ago he had been flung aside.

Arthur turns round, slamming it shut with the force of Merlin's body against the door. His forearm presses tightly against the warlock's throat. Pale blue eyes steeled, his face a grimace, but Arthur has no clue what to say first. There is so _much_ that has to be said.

"Was it worth it?" he asks gravely. "Was it _worth_ using your magic against me to face her alone?"

*

Merlin's thoughts are a panicked flurry.

They whirl with unstoppable speed. Desperate and clumsily attempting to hook on something identifiable. He silently lets the door fall open.

The instinct to run, to vanish without evidence left behind in the forest.

 _No_ , he can't give into that. Running is no longer an option.

Mab would just track him down again.

(But how did she _KNOW_ —?)

It isn't an improbability that eventually she may have. That the shielding and barring wards around his home and his woods held flaws that could be discovered, reversed even.

Merlin's mouth flattens into a single, tight line.

It couldn't have been the Vilia, he considers; it couldn't have—they were not creatures of darkness and deception; they belonged to the purity of the earth. They would have not betrayed him…

She would be back… of course Mab would. This wasn't over. And now one of the magical wards collapsed, and he needed to—needed—

A startled breath puffs between Merlin's lips, head ringing momentarily when he's with his back to the front door.

Reality claws back in.

He… he _caged_ Arthur. Like a feral animal.

The colour to Arthur's eyes, only inches from his, fierce and shadowy. Merlin's heart drums against his ribs.

He accepts the near-choking weight of Arthur's muscle-strong forearm to his throat, face empty.

One of Arthur's hands digs into the apple-green hoodie. But Merlin's hand remains lax to his sides, pursuing no comfort or forgiveness.

Arthur's voice crackles, lightning-heat to a growing storm.

_"Was it worth it?"_

Merlin's throat swallows with some difficulty against the pressure of the limb keeping him in place. In truth, he could very well remove Arthur from him, within a blink of an eye, without so much as cringe. He could throw Arthur back down against the couch, pin him there until nightfall, numbly listen to him scream and rage.

But what _good_ would that serve?… …

"I didn't want to," Merlin says, whispering, leveling his eyes to Arthur. Taking in small gasps of air. "But I know you _wouldn't_ have listened. We have the advantage if she doesn't know you're here."

(There's no guarantee of that, a little voice in his mind coaxes on the wicked thought. She had been _too_ fascinated by the cottage.)

The next words like waterfall, cascading out from him.

"That woman… she's not a normal enchantress. Her name is Mab," he explains. "She had the egg in her possession, I'm sure of that—and made sure I _found_ it, because she knew I would protect it with my life. Mab is waiting for me to call it before taking it. She can't be sure that I have yet."

"She only wants to harness Tiamat's power to her own end. I _can't_ let her do that." Merlin's jaw tightens. "Dragons are not meant to be used as pets or as tools for destruction. They are for the _benefit_ of all."

A heaviness settles in Merlin's chest. He needs Arthur to _understand_.

"I couldn't let you face her with me because she will try to use you, too."

Merlin's head lowers, eyes losing focus. Too heavy. Too heavy inside his own body.

"She'll do everything in her power to use you against me."

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UPDATE: Chapter 27 is scheduled for January 9 or 10th!


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not too much to report, but it's a new year! Happy new year! :) I hope it's been good to you lovelies and I'd love to hear your resolutions if you got them! My plan was to write more femslash for 2016 and ofc more updating! Anyway, thoughts/comments are always appreciated - and ILY. ❤
> 
>  **IMPORTANT** : The first year anniversary of this fic is coming up SOON! Next month I believe... on the 25th! 
> 
> I wanna celebrate it with a nice big chapter ofc, but also, I wanna give YOU GUYS something extra! Everyone here and on FFN who has taken the time to comment - whether it's back in Chapter 1 or even this newest one - if you have commented at ANY point in time, you are qualified for being entered in a prize drawing! 
> 
> _Three_ people will win a variety of promos or gifsets or even a writing request! It's up to you when you win! All you have to do is enter **[HERE](https://rie4.typeform.com/to/QBpEdm)**! I'll give more details later! Enter only once please! I repeat, you must enter **[HERE](https://rie4.typeform.com/to/QBpEdm)**!
> 
> I'd like to thank [KimliPan](http://archiveofourown.org/users/KimliPan/pseuds/KimliPan/) for betaing and everyone who has supported me so far. As well as my Britpick [ememmyem](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ememmyem/pseuds/ememmyem) who saved my neck. Half of this fic wouldn't exist without [marlena_darling](http://archiveofourown.org/users/marlena_darling/pseuds/marlena_darling) and I wanna say thank you for taking this journey with me and you've been a best friend to me. I love you lots and this is ours.

 

*

If it had been anyone else, anyone else, like Gwaine or another knight willfully disobeying orders, there would have been no hesitation from Arthur to land a blow.

But this is Merlin. It only causes his insides to wrench even more.

He's aware of how close they are, close enough that if Arthur tips his chin, they would be touching. It is nothing like this morning. There is no gentleness, no fluttering urge to touch those soft lips with his own. Now, Arthur stares into dark blue eyes staring back, eyes that match the expressionless face and slackened body.

 _Give me something_ , Arthur wants to yell. He needs to see that Merlin regrets his actions, that there's an apology somewhere.

Merlin only offers him whispered words, telling Arthur that he had not _wanted_ to.

Then _why_ had he done it?

Arthur's features harden when Merlin explains, shedding light on the situation while managing to to be vague. It's _obvious_ that she is not a 'normal enchantress'. She and Merlin have history, and she has power Merlin obviously sees as a threat. This woman and the dragon are connected.

Couldn't Merlin _understand_ the damage it causes?

" _Use_ me?" Arthur repeats, his lip curling."You couldn't _let_ me, because you thought she would turn me against you?"

He releases Merlin's throat and steps back, working his jaw as he continues to glare. "You act as if I'm just a pawn of yours to control, Merlin!"

Merlin nearly _begged_ Arthur to admit that he trusted him earlier, and now here he is, making decisions based on the delusion that Merlin's words may as well have been a lie. Suddenly, Arthur doesn't feel as if the trust _is_ mutual. Mab brought up facts. Facts that Arthur himself has been trying to avoid, trying not see, but they are finally aligning.

*

This is not the kind of closeness he desires.

Lazy and sleep-warm, as when Merlin presses his nose to Arthur's collarbone. Trembling and enticing, when Arthur's legs cling to Merlin's thigh. No compassion, no harmony of hearts—only the loud harshness of breathing, an iron-weight crushing to Merlin's windpipe. Only Arthur's face twisting up with his unrestrained anger.

Having to stare directly into that beautifully wrathful face, Merlin may have believed the morning to have been no more than a fanciful dream.

Dreams do that. _Make you believe in the impossible coming to life._

Arthur is an _impossible_ thing. Made alive once more, volatile and tethered by the lack of knowledge of this century and of Merlin's life. What has become of it. Since the fall of Camelot, since wandering alone for hundreds of years, Merlin always held _supremacy_ against the chaos and ruin surrounding him.

He was forced to make all of the decisions for himself, for those he loved. Using his magic as a device against the evils of this world and to _protect_ others.

Merlin had not acknowledged it as _problematic_. Wielding that much power. But what could he do? What could he do when the ground shook, when his kind were being tied to burning stakes, when Arthur's country moaned in agony and cried for salvation?

Merlin tried fading into the backdrop of history, and it worked for some time. But standing by, saying nothing, ultimately feels like giving up.

He _can't_ do that anymore. Not when what he fought for, would die for, would sacrifice the heavens for, stares hard back at Merlin.

Arthur's fists keep to themselves. Merlin watches the acknowledgment of ' _dragons_ ' flash a spark of resentment. And then, he lowers his eyebrows, furrowing them at the word "pawn". Did Arthur just accuse him of treating the king as a "pawn"…?

A _pawn_ would be on the front lines, useless and disposable. Arthur was _invaluable_ to his kingdom, to its citizens, to his friends. On the battlefield, he was their greatest source of resilience and fearlessness.

No one could afford to lose him. Certainly not Merlin. Not just because of a rotted and cruel destiny, but because he _meant_ so much to him.

Merlin was a rook, standing firm against Camelot's enemies, defending the king, the queen, the knights and even the smallest pawn.

He wouldn't know what _else_ to be.

Arthur's forearm pulls away, leaving the heaviness filling Merlin the only thing keeping him upright. His mind was starting to get away from him again, whirling in circles and tainted by this self-realisation.

The emptiness gone, instead replaced by a stiff frown.

"You've never faced her before, Arthur," he says, meeting their gazes. "I _have_. Once she has you… you can only wish for death." Merlin's hand reflexively comes towards his left side, smoothing down over his hipbone.

"She's older than me. Born with magic like me. I've only managed to defeat her once before escaping, and I'm not sure how I did."

Merlin's head shakes.

"I'm not trying to control you. I'm…" he insists, unable to get his voice other than solemn. "I'm trying to keep you out of harm's way. You don't have magic, you can't fight her."

The rook _must_ protect.

"… I can't watch you die again."

*

Now that he's no longer pinning Merlin against the door, Arthur faces a swelling of pent up energy.

He wants to move, pace, shout, just to run. Arthur's like molten lightning, confined in a too-tight body. The cottage is no longer enchanted, but Arthur _still_ feels trapped.

Merlin frowns, the act like a tick in the corners of his mouth, and the maddening, leveled tone of his voice continues. He can't remember being this angry before, to the point where Arthur's chest nearly feels white-hot. It's _justified_ , he tells himself. It has been coming.

The flex of Merlin's hand does not go unnoticed. Arthur watches out of the corner of his eye as it presses against Merlin's side.

Merlin hadn't even given another thought about facing an enchantress who could so easily bring thoughts of death to someone's mind? How could he be so _careless_?

His words reach Arthur's ears, and while he _wants_ to believe Merlin, wants to think he has no intentions of doing that again, the look in his eyes speak differently. Arthur's resigned, determined, and that does not bode well. Especially when told he could not _fight_.

"Because I don't have magic?" Arthur replies, voice clipped.

_I can't watch you die again._

He blinks, his expression becoming incredulous as Arthur stares at the man in front of him.

It's a blow instead of sympathetic.

All at once, memories from the past week flood him. Larry, the man from the costume shoppe. Arthur hardly believed him when he ranted on about the extent of Merlin's power, of his capabilities. _The most powerful sorcerer of all time_.

Arthur wanted to laugh then because the Merlin _he_ knew was not capable of that. But now, Merlin practically claims it for himself, his stories of Mab, her own mentions of his inclusion of events in the past.

He is _powerful_ , and power and grief never mix well.

"You can't? Or you won't?"

Arthur's suspicions piece together, linking the doubts. Never has Arthur voiced them. They were hurriedly pushed back, Arthur refuses to even believe them.

The tome—Merlin's account of the years of Camelot in his perspective. _Sir Lancelot's return._

Merlin knew from the start that Lancelot was not himself, while everyone else had been none the wiser. Gaius and him, they had trapped the knight, learned of the curse put upon him. From the writing, Morgana had been powerful enough to conjure it. She had been _powerful_ enough to bring Lancelot back from Avalon, and make him none the wiser to his fate. Lancelot, the man with the purest intentions, had not known the darkness he was raised back into.

Are… their positions all that different?

Arthur steps forward, but leans away all the same. " _How_ did I come back, Merlin?"

It's a question they both avoided. Neither knew, or at least, Arthur thought that to be the case. His eyes narrow, staring critically.

"Everyone in this age believes you to be this incredible sorcerer. You're the best. The most powerful." It rolls off his tongue without flattery. "You've been around for centuries. You _should_ know, shouldn't you?'

"Morgana knew how Lancelot returned. You obviously have to as well. According to that _Mab_ , you're not a stranger to dark magic, either!"

*

It hurts every time. Every time to acknowledge that Merlin failed in his destiny, failed saving Arthur.

It never got easier, or healed off.

He failed so many times in the past. Atlantes and the Black Death being one of the markers to the pages of Merlin's immortal life. Failing _now_ , failing Arthur again, it's an unbearable thought.

Arthur's body gives off all the signals of hostility, of wanting to lash out or to retreat.

Anywhere, _anywhere_ but with Merlin.

He understands Arthur's _livid_ —at being kept in the dark, being kept locked away, at being told he _can't_ do a bloody thing. It's a harsh truth. Merlin could have worded it differently…

"What do you mean ' _won't_ '?" he asks, genuine confusion there.

_"Everyone in this age claims you to be this incredible sorcerer."_

What…

" _You're the best."_

was…

_"The most powerful."_

he…

_"You've been around for centuries. You should know, shouldn't you?"_

…saying?

Merlin feels a small, instinctive flinch itching against his control as Arthur's arm waves out to the side, as violent as his mocking tone.

"I don't know—" sounds more like a weak, dazed mumble and fading under the increasing volume.

Arthur's voice rises before lowering from hysterical, his chest hitching as he draws in a sharp breath. The next time he speaks, his breathing quakes. "Why _now_? Was it the _kindness_ of the spirits of Avalon, or was it necromancy?"

At the mention of dark magic, Merlin steels himself, shoulders going rigid but it does nothing to prevent the bloom of shock inside him.

Was…?

Was Arthur _accusing_ him of…?

A shuddery inhale of breath.

"I don't… know _why_ ," Merlin says, feeling as if he's unable to draw another. "I've been trying to seek that answer, and it's _not_ clear. Do you not think I would tell you if I knew?"

He gazes over Arthur for a minute, the near manic light to his eyes, before a close-lipped smirk lifts his mouth.

"No… no," he says, more softly, with a brush of resentment. "You would rather charge me guilty with bringing you back as a living corpse." As Arthur leans back, Merlin seizes the opposite approach and leans in, searching Arthur's expression openly, coldly.

"So you _DO_ think I'm a monster?" Merlin's smirk widens, exposing his teeth in a fierce unhappiness. "S'alright, everyone else does… why not you, too? After all, isn't that _all_ magic is? Corrupt and evil. People are only good _or_ bad, right? Those who have magic, even if they h-had no choice in the matter, they should be treated like monsters. Maybe Uther _was onto something_ ," Merlin chokes out as if on his own tears, like words are venom and he can't stomach them despite the undertone of sarcasm.

"But understand this…"

Merlin's throat convulses with a swallow, bile filming.

"To practice necromancy is to turn away from the light; you can't go back from that." Stormy blue eyes lid slightly, as Merlin says, somberly, "If such darkness touched your soul, Arthur… you would feel it down to your bones. It would change every part of you. There would be _no_ goodness left. You wouldn't have _known_ you were yourself.'

"You would not hunger, or crave thirst, or be able to satiate animal lust. You would be _nothing_ but a husk; a puppet made of _empty_ flesh."

Merlin's jaw clenches harder. With his own anger stemming out, his voice rumbles. "Lancelot was a shade of a human being. He didn't have a _heartbeat_. Are you so wrapped up in your temper that you can't see something so clearly in front of you?"

*

Arthur realises he's getting something out of him: confusion, but the question that comes with it ignored in favour of Arthur's rage.

His bitter train of thought hits its end; the grim, ghastly word leaving him and consuming the room into silence. _Necromancy_. It's an accusation he would never take lightly. Not when there is so little he grasps.

He witnesses as an ugly smirk over Merlin's features. The warlock's tone sending a chill of wariness through the furnace burning around his heart.

_You would rather charge me guilty—_

No.

Arthur would choose anything else. To even think for a _moment_ that Merlin is guilty of something that _evil_ … it goes against everything he knew to be right in this world. Everything Arthur believes in. His whole being thrashes and pleads for it to _not_ be true.

But his knowledge and opinions are ancient. Time has changed. And every reluctant thought pushes Arthur towards his accusation.

Merlin's smirk is feral and malicious. The air feels even more unsteady than it already was. Arthur remembers battlegrounds and high-stakes courtrooms, trying to fend off an impending war. The more Merlin speaks, Arthur realises it has already begun. Long before he returned.

He has seen a broken man before, _never_ a monster. His father's name shakes him; Arthur's eye twitching, fingers at his side, slowly curling.

His whole body could sinking into the floor underneath an invisible weight. There has been a darkness clinging to his insides from the moment Merlin explained that Camelot was gone. A pitch-black emotion like fury and emptiness clogging his throat and burning his lungs while he tries to suck it back in, keep it from showing. He does not know if it is what Merlin _speaks_ of, but a confirmation is more terrifying than not knowing.

" _Why_ would I lie about this, Arthur?"

Merlin never yells. He only becomes ruthless. It's unlike anything Arthur has seen from him. He needs a straightforward _answer_.

"And _how_ do you expect me to know you wouldn't?" Arthur's retort comes out in a snarl.

"The world has changed so much—why would you be any different?" Arthur's voice booms out as he lurches away, refusing to move any closer. "Ever since I _crawled_ out of that bloody lake, I've been lost! Camelot's gone. Everything I stood for, everything I wanted it to _be_. The knights who served it— _gone_. Gwaine, Leon." Arthur's voice breaks. " _Guinevere_. They're all dead. Just like that. I wake up and suddenly find that everything I have ever known _no longer exists_!"

Arthur finally looks from Merlin, shoulders stiffening before returning his other man's gaze, eyes wide.

"Do you _understand_ that sort of grief? Everyone I loved. My family, my legacy, my people—there's not even a trace of them _left_. Instead, there are cars and shoppes that light themselves from above, and _things I don't understand_. Every time I look around, there's more of it and I've tried to not get buried underneath it, but it _doesn't_ stop," Arthur hollers. "The only place I damn well knew what I was doing was the faire, and it was _pretend_! I'm not a king anymore, Merlin—I'm hardly more than a _story_!"

Arthur's chest heaves in, his mouth snapping shut for a moment while he glares. "But there was still _you_!'

"You. _You_ found me, brought me back here, and I thought it was the most gracious miracle that could have been bestowed on me. I wasn't completely alone, and never was. It didn't take me long to notice something was _wrong_.'

"Do you remember what I told you? When I was _dying_ , Merlin—do you remember?" Arthur's voice snaps, teetering on the line between a yell and a demand. "I told you never to change. Now, you're not _recognisable_!"

He hates the taste of his words spilling out, but Arthur's too far gone to do anything else.

"Is there any of the man I knew left, or are you pretending?" Arthur surges forward again, just barely crossing the perimeter of Merlin's space. "Every time I _think_ I see it, even just for a moment, it's replaced with this. Time has not been kind to you, Merlin—but I'm starting to wonder how _forgiving_ you've been in return."

He gestures to the front door, his colour reddening.

"You _never_ would have done what I just witnessed. You told me you used your magic only for me. To _protect_ me, but that was not protection. _THAT_ was containment. Putting me away for when it would be more useful for her to know I was alive. This has become an act of calculated survival for you, Merlin, and I want _no part_ of that!" Arthur slams a fist against his thigh. "So yes, how _am_ I supposed to know you wouldn't bring me back? You're a different man from the one I knew—perhaps this one finally got lonely. _Tired_ of the waiting."

Arthur's head suddenly jerks back, as if he has been slapped.

"So I shouldn't be _here_ …"

It's growing difficult to breathe. He has to get _out_ of here. He has to leave, find somewhere where there's more room.

"Magic is an evil of this world. That's all I've ever seen from it, besides yours," Arthur says, lowly. "I've tried to keep that line between you and the others, but when you used it against me and treat me as an inferior, it _doesn't_ exist. You're no _better_ than my father."

Arthur couldn't be around him. If he did, all Arthur would see was the Merlin he wanted to _believe_ was still with him.

He's _different_ — _older_ , powerful and menacing. Arthur can't ignore the signs. This man had been worn down, and Arthur knew of what loneliness and desperation could do to a person. Morgana had been a perfect example. He couldn't imagine Merlin stooping that low.

He's furious, trembling, and his eyes sting as much as his clenching throat. Arthur leans back on his heels, expression tired and angry still, lips twisting into a grimace.

"You have the last of your dragons to worry about. You don't need me. "

He hurries around Merlin, wrenching open the door with as much force as possible. Nothing keeps him in place or shoves him back. There is resistance.

Arthur doesn't bother to looking back. He would say he has no idea where he's going, but that would be a lie. Arthur knows exactly where he is going.

 _Back_.

*

He's on a downward spiral, faster and more violently out of control.

Merlin can see it in every new line of Arthur's face, hear it in each new word snapping or roaring out from his mouth.

In some meaning, witnessing how Arthur fractures apart his own reality is morbidly _breathtaking_.

So much energy, so much heat rising from him. Arthur as the all-encompassing sun to Merlin's universe, burning up in a stellar explosion, wiping out all signs of life along with him.

The _grief_ , the rage.

It pushes Arthur on, dilating the already wide gash between his ever-strong restraint and the wild fervour of an insurmountable dread. Merlin witnesses Arthur _finally_ acknowledge it all, his circumstances, being displaced in time, his doubt and broken state of mind.

(Why _should_ Arthur have trusted him?)

Merlin can do little more than take the brunt of the verbal blows, unmoving and voiceless in his grimness. That earlier shock creeps over him, winding and tangling his limbs, like ivy to a tree.

It's not his place to draw Arthur away from his moment of clarity, however angry it is, however _painful_ it is…

_"Do you understand that sort of grief?"_

More than Arthur could grasp. Far more than what was natural.

Everyone _Merlin_ loved with all his heart, gone and swept into the abyss. His mother, his father, Will, Sir Gwaine, Guinevere, Morgana...

Whether taken to heaven or to hell, but… _maybe_ this is hell. Maybe hell is staring into the face of the person whom you cherish more than any other soul, as they reveal how much they begrudge you, your choices, _the lot_ about you.

One day, every soul-light would be extinguished by the hands of death, by the eternal turnings of the world. That fact will never be altered.

But there is only one constant—only one _THING_ truly that will not decay or erode as hundreds of years come and go. Merlin _could not_ perish under the weight of all of the suffering, _his_ suffering.

It became like a second skin, veiling any lonely emotion.

At the utterance of "miracle"—even pounding shock thudding inside Merlin's skull— doesn't obstruct the soft, helpless noise from his throat.

Without meaning to, Arthur _clung_ to what Merlin provided him. To the security of his lasting presence, to the reminder that not all is lost to the Once and Future King. To a unchanged friendship, despite lifetimes distanced, still warm and effortless.

Merlin never… longed for that warmth to grow _cold_ in Arthur's eyes.

The convulsing power behind the anger spreads, infecting Arthur's voice. He spoke of his dying moments, of a lost-time.

( _I am pretending_ , the little voice whispers. Merlin's own voice this time. _I know I am pretending. Pretending for you, hoping I can remember_.)

It didn't matter if Merlin opened his mouth to protest again, Arthur firmly believes that necromancy was an agent in his return. He believes Merlin is a different person entirely, and became _impatient_.

As if the subject of using dark magic could be so inescapably simple…

Arthur's chest rises and falls in a near hyperventilating pattern, each time with each accusation and yell. The part of Merlin not silenced with this revelation wishes to soothe the other man. Wishes to hold Arthur's forearms and talk sense into him. _Explain_.

But… why would any man rationally listen? To someone who had knowingly _abused_ their great power? The thought curdles Merlin's stomach and pinches his heart… he _has_.

Many times, for the sake of others, for the sake of himself— but this time he held _Arthur_ against his will, until he was out of his mind with anxiety and fear, much like Uther had done to him.

They both claimed it was for Arthur's _safety_.

A tremor of ugly self-realisation forms around his middle, squeezes on tight until it feels like Merlin _can't_ suck anything in. Very dimly, he knows Arthur left the cottage, a hurricane of colliding and harsh emotions.

But somehow, he hasn't lifted a hand to stop him.

Seconds, or possibly hours dwindling before feeling it. Something cool like water. Merlin's fingers rise up sluggishly, wiping under his eye.

His fingertips come back unmistakably damp.

*

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possible chapter before the 25th but just to be safe, set your expectations to that date!


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY ANNIVERSARY CHAPTER!! ❤ Whether you just showed up or you've been here since the first day, you all reading and commenting are my joy and have given me so much to consider and reflect on, and I love each and every one of you. Seriously thank you! Thank you thank you! I had something planned for today, but it didn't end up working out - BUT, you lovelies get your nice big chapter and I most definitely DO have a surprise in the near future for you! :) ❤
> 
>  **IMPORTANT** : And to celebrate the people who have commented, I'm leaving the prize drawing open for ONE more day! You are qualified to enter if you have commented AT LEAST once signed onto AO3 or on FFN!
> 
>  _Three_ people will win a variety of promos or gifsets or even a writing request! It's up to you when you win! All you have to do is enter **[HERE](https://rie4.typeform.com/to/QBpEdm)**! I'll give more details later! Enter only once please! I repeat, you must enter **[HERE](https://rie4.typeform.com/to/QBpEdm)**!
> 
> I'd like to thank [KimliPan](http://archiveofourown.org/users/KimliPan/pseuds/KimliPan/) for betaing and everyone who has supported me so far. As well as my Britpick [ememmyem](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ememmyem/pseuds/ememmyem) who saved my neck. Half of this fic wouldn't exist without [marlena_darling](http://archiveofourown.org/users/marlena_darling/pseuds/marlena_darling) and I wanna say thank you for taking this journey with me and you've been a best friend to me. I love you lots and this is ours.

*

The woods is background noise to the sound of Arthur's thundering heart.

He doesn't bother to pay mind to where he is. All he does know is that he furthers himself from the cottage, and _that distance_ is what he desires.

Even so, a mile between him and Merlin does nothing to calm him. The damage has been done, and now Arthur rides out the rest of the storm.

It feels like being ripped apart from the inside, the anger burning through his bones. Most of it had escaped him, but there's still enough to keep him pushing forward.

He remembers screaming ringing in his ears, words jumbled, leaving him wondering if _he_ said it, or if they had even been spoken at all. But they were, refusing to cease, not allowing Arthur to forget for a moment what he had just done, what _Merlin_ had done. The cold, teeth-bared smirk of Merlin's flashes across his memory. The dangerous bite of his too-low voice.

A ragged breath passes his lips as Arthur's legs stagger. But then he's collected, barreling on again until Arthur begins to see where he's heading. The walk before seemed longer.

( _Perhaps that is because you were weaker then. Depending on Merlin to drag you most of the way because you couldn't handle it yourself._ )

It's hardly past afternoon, the sun still out and forest bright. But clouds welding together, darkening, they suit the mood surrounding the quiet woods. The lake's slowly churning water is a murky blue-grey by the time Arthur reaches it. The last crack of sunlight shining down from the heavens, radiating in the middle of the water.

The _same_ lake-water he rose from. When it had been an icy wet clinging to his skin, when his armour dragged him beneath the surface as he kicked to the shore.

If only Arthur would have known the struggle would only get more _difficult_ once he escaped.

"Get on with it! I'm here! Take me _back_!" he hollers, already knee-deep. _To my people. To my life before it was stripped away from me._

Hot tears slide down Arthur's cheek.

"You brought me here, damn you—now _take me back_!"

But, nothing. The spirits remain mute, without compassion.

Arthur's nails dig into his face as he clutches on and he emits a short, winded scream of frustration.

 _Wait_ —

Excalibur laid to rest _somewhere_ in this lake. It has to here still. The sword he used to help _lead_ his kingdom to victory, that had been with him as Arthur fought for honour and bravery. Now it's lost, along with everything else.

An impulse overtakes him, and Arthur splashes forward.

 _Excalibur_.

He needs it. If only for a reminder, if only to establish that once there had been _something_ he fought for. _Anything_.

The water sloshes to his thighs, his footing stumbling as his wild mind searches with disoriented eyes.

He had everything else with him from his death. The broken, rusted armour. The tattered cloak—everything but _his_ sword.

Arthur's tempted to dive under, search for it that way, but a question pries at him—

 _why_?

Clarity halts him.

Why even do it?

There's nothing _left_ for him. Not a kingdom. Not a queen. Not his friends.

Not even a sword.

The anger, and his energy, rushes out of his body in a ragged noise as his knees buckle, leaving Arthur climbing onto the shore.

When he hits the ground upright, the last bit of air coughs out of his lungs. He can't _breathe_ —

Just like that Arthur curls in on himself, forearms pressing into his stomach as he hunches over, gasping. Hands claw at his shirt in attempt to stabilise himself as his chest shudders.

The gravity of what he's _done_ strikes him. The fire of his rage sweeps out, instead replacing with a grieving he had not been allowing himself to show. The _vicious_ , unforgiving things he said to Merlin, his beliefs and trust shattering around him.

His head bows towards his knees. Damp fabric clinging to Arthur's skin as cool air blows against him. His face scrunches, lips pressed white as they twist, trying to keep himself contained inside. That's no longer an option, and a choked sob retches through his body, forcing its way out as his body shakes violently. Arthur's eyes close.

He's not entirely out of the water, his feet dipping in. Arthur's there, for however long, but eventually, he straightens.

Then, it's numbness. His mind foggy, and his blurry eyes staring out at the glittering, sun-dappled lake.

*

… _When did the tears start?_

The first, fully coherent thought in the jumble that is Merlin's consciousness. He tilts his head, staring down at two fingers shining.

It must not have been noticeable. If Arthur had not reacted.

( _I am pretending._ )

But if Merlin truly did not care, then why would he… cry? Why would it feel like a thousand shards of glass jammed into his chest ? Arthur walking out wouldn't dim the entire scene around him...

No crackling of firewood, no hiss of smoke or embers. Without the hearth lit, the rooms of the stone cottage begin to freeze.

He feels the overwhelming amount of shock gradually loosen its hold on him, head thudding less, his blood sounder even if his heart refuses to slow its pace. Merlin treated victims of circulatory shock, knew the symptoms and trauma. Without looking at himself, he knows his palms are clammy. Merlin knows his body feels lumbering with haphazard weight, his eyes have trouble adjusting.

The cotton fabric of Merlin's hoodie itches madly where it brushes the dark hairs on his arms. The floorboards under him are funny.

Funny like… moving tidal waves.

 _Oh_ , ha.

He had been a resident of Britain's various medical personnel long enough to know when someone was on the verge of _passing out_.

With that in mind, Merlin holds himself against a wall, not trusting himself to make it to the bathroom or kitchen for a cold cloth. Eyes shut, resting the back of his skull, he scrubs once at his face, at the perspiration left to his brow, sticky and foul.

Enough slow and deep breaths, calming him for now, sharpens the rest of Merlin's senses. Allowed him to be hyper-aware of around him.

He let Arthur _run away_.

With _Mab still out there_.

A flash of panic swells up, threatening to burst. But _where_? Where on earth does Arthur think he can go—when Camelot is _gone_ —?

No. Merlin's teeth sink into his bottom lip, grinding. He _wouldn't_.

He exhales loudly, inhaling through his nose, and lets a wave of his magic sink into the ground, deep, deep into the living roots of earth. Rooting and seeking where Arthur may have wandered off to.

Arthur isn't thinking clearly—Merlin can barely stand upright—it feels like Mab won—one of the protection wards is still dissolved—

 _There_. He feels Arthur's weight sinking to the grass, bowed and shuddering. His entire body succumbed to this. Like he's in pain.

Whether or not it's metaphorical, it doesn't matter to Merlin.

The next phenomenon to Merlin's senses is the noises of choppy lake water, as it gathers at his ankles and calves, heavy and unrelenting. The algae-slick mud below sucking at the thick soles of boots.

Dark blue eyes fly open, panic seizing Merlin with renewed vigor.

What the bleeding hell is Arthur _thinking_?

He pulls on a pair of worn, soft trainers and races out the cottage door.

Adrenaline and fear keeps Merlin's body and mind going on alert as he takes a familiar path towards the west, knocking over pebbled rocks, elbowing the prickling brush and untamed shrubs.

To the rubbish gods of old, in the name of his destiny, Merlin prays. Harder than he thinks he has in a very long time.

Do _not_ let Avalon take this man from him.

The grassy clearing leads Merlin downhill, nearly sending him tumbling off his own feet. The visual towards the edge of a watery bank gives him the ability to feel relief and devastation.

Arthur is no longer wadding in. He can't see Arthur's expression or his front, but understands the body language.

He's _defeated_ , perhaps in every implication of the word. No sobs escape him, no whimpers or groans, but a terrible, human-weak noise unlike anything Merlin has heard, expressing what speech can't.

Merlin continues glancing at the center-line of Arthur's shoulders, halting from closing any short distance, and waits for the other man to feel him out. The last thing he wants is for Arthur to retreat again. And certainly _not_ in the direction he faces.

A stab of meaningful ire suddenly jolts through him. Avalon can _rot_.

*

As he stares out across the lake, all Arthur feels is an _ache_.

Not the throbbing pain of an injury, but a relentless, everlasting knot tied deep within him. It's an ache that blocks the continuous reminders swarming him. The biting, degrading thoughts kept locked away, swimming in the thick fog overtaking his mind.

Everything about him feels _heavy_. Arthur's hands that clutched himself lose their strength, now lying limp in his lap. His chest no longer heaves; the hyperventilating has come and gone.

Now that it is finally out, that Arthur more or less expresses that his ability to _function in a new world_ isn't working, he feels it. He feels numb, broken down and damaged.

He's tried denial.

Arthur believed he could adapt, that perhaps there was a chance that not _all_ was lost. The faire gave him that last bit of false hope, only for it to spiral out of grasp and lead to this. The anger followed, blowing out full force. He's _here_ , pleading with a body of _water_ for his last remaining hope to be returned to him.

There's nothing left for Arthur to do but _remember_ , and remembering has consequences. Tears prick at his eyes, slipping out and running down his skin without complaint.

It _terrifies_ him, knowing Merlin would use that sort of magic on him. That he has that power and knew Arthur was inferior. That is that.

Arthur has been _scared_ and reacted poorly.

The things he said…

There's enough belief in his words that Arthur does not take them back. Yet, Arthur can still hear the violent cut in his voice, aimed only for tearing through the other man's armour. Except it hadn't been _completely_ controlled on Merlin's part, had it? Arthur is suddenly reminded of Merlin's face as the other man glared, spewing words full of contempt.

While his face remained unmoved, Arthur remembered dark blues staring in building horror. _Tears_. There had been tears.

Arthur's insides churn, his own eyes shutting as he bites down sharply onto the inside of his cheek.

He never wanted to cause pain like that to Merlin again, and yet, he done so without taking a moment to think about it. But he hadn't _expected_ it. Nothing Arthur had seen from Merlin lately was anything _but_ lack of emotion. Arthur had been _angry_ , and rightfully so, but—

The sound of thrashing branches behind him. Arthur understands the chances what it is, _who_ it is.

He stays silent, hands curling tight once more. But, Arthur doesn't look back, or turn away from the water at his ankles. He doesn't trust himself to see Merlin and _not_ react.

Arthur's mouth opens, but at first all that comes out is a faint croak, his voice straining and refusing to work. Arthur inhales, eyes opening, pushing the words out.

"Tell me you didn't." he says, voice low. "I need you to tell me… you didn't. You didn't bring me back."

*

This scene is so different from before. No morning fog thickening around him or balmy air. No dripping armour. No pure white lilies.

And yet, in some ways, the chase had been the same… Merlin knows he would still _follow_. Whether through the sun-dappled, winding forest, to the muddy banks of the lake with its serene waters, or into Avalon's gates—he would follow Arthur.

Without a faint heart. Without a faint conscious. Because it's _Arthur_.

And that is all the reason Merlin would ever need.

He trusted in their destiny, slowly and gradually over time, cherishing their strange friendship. Destiny _betrayed_ them both, set up to fall to ruin from the very beginning… so what is this? Is this to prove another sorry plight? In Arthur no longer _trusting_ Merlin?

What cruelty needs to be justified in letting Merlin's promising spring wither just as it returns to his empty, gray winter?

He does not blame Arthur for losing his head, for _blaming_ Merlin. Rather, he has been waiting for a fissure of emotion, for a pronounced crack in his shields to manifest. Knowing it would be harsh, but perhaps not _this_ harsh.

Arthur's back hunches, muscles tensing. It's not exactly safe to be out in the open for either of them, but Merlin thinks he can hold his own.

The ground is soft and damp to Merlin's knees as he kneels down, straightening his back.

"Will you look at me at least before I give my answer?" he asks.

As expected, Arthur does not acknowledge his request. Merlin releases an audible breath, curling his fingers over his thighs and bowing his head.

"I swear to you on the grave of my mother… I didn't bring you back, Arthur," he says, letting honesty flow between every pause, every catch of an breath. "Only the powers of Avalon had that, for reasons I never have been granted. I _had_ to accept waiting for you to come back. Not knowing that at any moment, you could be _living_. You could be breathing and opening your eyes, and if I wasn't there…'

"If I _wasn't_ there, that day, or any other day I had been absent from this country, what may have happened to you. I feared that more than anything."

Merlin lifts his chin, eyebrows fixed sternly. But without hard lines, wicked emotion, and there's no doubt and no wavering.

"Many kings have taken their oaths and taken their crowns since our time… none of them I called my friend." A smile peeks out, like a glow of sunlight. "I'm proud of what we achieved, Arthur. You didn't leave behind broken dreams and a broken kingdom—it _prospered_. In your name, peace and union between the five kingdoms of Albion reigned."

The warlock lets his hand drop forward, pressing into the bristly grass.

"We're the United Kingdom because of you. You're not just a story," Merlin whispers, blue eyes searching over his king. "You're a reason there's still _good_ in the hearts of your people."

( _In me._ )

*

This is as closest as Arthur will come to begging.

He needs to know that he was _wrong_. Arthur realises now that he turned himself into a man he never wanted to be. That storming, violent anger that ravages.

Now that he has no one to be responsible for, he stopped being responsible for _himself_.

This is _Merlin_ , his mind reminds him. He could have stopped Arthur from leaving before. Merlin could have made him forget. He could have lied. But there had been no attempt to stop him as Arthur barreled out the door. There had been no words.

He doesn't answer Merlin's request, eyes locked on the water.

It's the oath that makes Arthur's gaze flicker up, surprised. He understands the depth of the relationship between Merlin and Hunith. Arthur has seen it with appreciative and _longing_ eyes.

Out of all things, of all promises and oaths Merlin could have made, this is the only that seems _real_.

What Merlin speaks is a mindset borderlining obsessive and dependent, and Arthur knows what that could do to someone. He seen it happen to some of the people he cherished most dearly in his life. Is it truly different? Merlin waited _centuries_ , endured pain that Arthur couldn't begin to fathom, all to be here because he feared what would _happen_ to Arthur if he awoke to no one at his side.

He expects it to end there, seeing as he's given a response, but Merlin continues speaking. The faint breach of warmth in Merlin's tone, and Arthur's chest gives a dull spark, as if trying to awaken.

_You're a reason there's still good in the hearts of your people._

He succeeded in earning more for his kingdom. Arthur had the choice to turn into something more brilliant than it already was, and it seemed it took flight. If Merlin was to be believed.

*

Merlin's eyes slowly glance over the person in front of him.

He waits for sounds. Arthur's shoulders give a small, nearly-invisible indication that he's deeply listening to Merlin's words. A quiver like they are weighed.

If Arthur wants to sit and listen, and do no more than that for a time… then he can grant him exactly that.

"In the cave, the night you gave me your mother's sigil, I think…" Merlin says with quiet deliberation, wetting the crease of his lips. "I think you gave it to me because you thought you were going to sacrifice yourself on the Isle of the Blessed… you thought you were going to die.'

"When we left the Isle together, you never asked for it back. I knew you wouldn't have forgotten. An object that important to you couldn't be so easily clouded from your mind. Even while grieving."

And grieve they did. For the noblest of men snatched before his time. Because death was a _cruel_ fate. That hole in Merlin's heart for Lancelot could not be healed properly, and it had been a guarantee when Morgana raised him with the blackest magic. Stripping his dear friend of all of what made him—his nobility, his goodness, his love, his _heart_.

A pained look crosses over Merlin's face. His fingers grip into the bristly grass, nearly tearing it up from the soil.

He takes in a loud breath to cleanse the unbearable memory.

For Arthur, it had been no other viable options, and the sacrifice was necessary. Arthur had to do it for his kingdom. For Arthur, it had not been a difficult decision to give the object to Merlin.

His mother's sigil was a prized possession, and it hardly left Arthur's side while on journeys. It became a good luck charm, despite him not believing in most superstitions. Arthur hadn't been able to _accept_ the idea of her dying along with him, with nothing left of her memory. If he was to pass, he wanted both of them to live on, _in_ Merlin.

There was no one else he trusted with such an object, and Arthur had not felt the need to _say_ why.

He always assumed Merlin knew, anyway. Not fully, but enough.

"I left your mother's sigil behind in your chambers one night, not anywhere particularly important like your pillow or on a stack of notices, just… on the table. The next afternoon, I came back from doing rounds in the lower town with Gaius, I saw it again.'

"The sigil was on my cot. But it wasn't left behind alone… a piece of torn parchment sat next to it. _Don't ever lose this,_ " Merlin recites back the message, softly. He feels his lips curl into a familiar smile. "During training, you nearly lobbed off my head with one of the battle axes. The knights were on about it for days, laughing about how red your face was, how I barely got away without a scrape.'

"But I think you were angry with the thought of me rejecting it. But I…I never thought of rejecting it." Merlin shakes his head as if to emphasis his point. He lets his expression tilt from view. The lighthearted smile fading off. "I just didn't think I _deserved_ a part of you. Not something that precious…"

Despite getting no reaction, only the bunched center-line of Arthur's muscular back, the wind to Merlin's sails will not be tempered.

"I've done things that confused the meaning to you," he admits. "Things I should have considered differently."

Merlin wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. God, it feels like a trigger inside him on the verge of erupting. The length of his arm to his hand still in the grass trembles. Merlin's voice breaks at first. "You've made me realize my mistake, when I held you against your will."

A sensation like tightness in his lungs. Tightness and fullness. Merlin is drowning on his own confessions.

His sorcery pulls at his core, fiercely, battling in him with the mix of emotions and heating his skin.

He's coming apart at the seams. Ripping open every fault and every shred of self-doubt from his chest, holding them to the light. He wants to shrink away, to cradle them to where they belonged, before Arthur discovers them, before he can see Merlin for what he has truly _become_.

And… after so many centuries, he isn't even sure what _that_ is.

"I did the same to magic when I tried protecting what remained of it. I ended up sealing it away and made enemies of my own kind."

Merlin's arm is no longer the only part of him trembling.

"All I've ever wanted for magic was for it to be accepted. To not have to hide in fear anymore," he says, as if it takes everything in him to _not_ break apart. The thickness in Merlin's voice indicates tears but none spill from his eyes screwing up, head bowed. "Morgana wanted the same, but she would have had it by force. She wanted to kill for that right. I couldn't… go the same path.'

"People feared magic more and more. Wanted to hurt it, banish it." His breaths are little more than gasps now. This is _worse_ than any inane babbling. This was a _bleeding_ out. And it hurts so much worse, more than any gutting he's experienced, any beheading, any pyre burning him alive. "I tried to contain it, to shield it away. Because I didn't want to see it die. And I was _wrong_."

Merlin raises his eyes, the quality of iris colour piercing against red. "I was wrong when I did it to _you_ , Arthur," he chokes out. "I'm sorry."

He scrambles to pull apart, as Merlin pulls himself open from those broken seams.

With just words. They travel on his own breathes and tear him raw.

Merlin only wanted Arthur to know the _truth_. His truths, his sorrows. And to one day accept them as they were.

He can't know if Arthur firmly believed him or trusted anymore than he had before, or felt _safe_. But Merlin meant _every_ damn word.

Both of them had barely gotten around to sitting down and _discussing_ the possible reasons why Arthur had came back, what their plans were for the future in discovering this, what Merlin would do with the dragon…

Arthur never mentioned how _comfortable_ he was in this situation.

The realization grasps hard around him, to the inside walls of Merlin's throat. Several pale fingers rise hurried, sliding up over Merlin's neck, tracing anxiously along an invisible line.

How can Arthur feel _safe_?

How can _any_ mortal with Merlin be this way? Someone who could not be given the peace of an eternal rest, did not age, was not capable of dreams, did not bruise or wound easily…

And yet, where _else_ could Arthur go? The one person who understood his circumstances, his only friend left was Merlin.

Does… Arthur feel trapped all along, privately taken aback by the sight of the _pitiful_ creature who now wears Merlin's face? Gaunt and stretched within the confines of his own skin and the overflow of his mind, hurt and strained.

Merlin's other hand, clenching to the grass, burrows fingernails to soil.

In time, Arthur would gain confidence in the knowledge of this new era. Maybe seek his own path, if he deemed Merlin's help no longer useful.

A slick hotness, bitter and revolting, gathers in the back of his mouth.

That wasn't like Arthur, no. Arthur would never abandon his friends. But the thought of Arthur feeling _obligated_ to stay with him…

It isn't the least bit comforting.

That alone is enough to turn Merlin's stomach ugly and trembling.

As _ugly_ as remembering Morgana.

Merlin had not spoken of her, not aloud… in many, many years. That painful reminder of taking Morgana's life, though it had been to save Arthur (you're _wrong_ , the little voice sneers, cloaked in the darkness. _You lured her into a trap and used the dying king as bait._ )

His lips press together, flattening so they would not tremble.

He regrets so much, and can't take _any_ of it back. And probably… wouldn't have. If it meant altering time, Merlin thinks he might have done it the same. He would have _tried_ his best, because no more could have been done. Time could not be rewritten, and destiny could not have changed for them.

Not one line. No matter how _important_ they were.

Arthur had been livid. Furious, wary, and in some ways that hadn't changed. But, he doesn't have it in him to be _angry_ anymore. He only wants this all to end, wants this pain inside him gone.

And, he's done searching for a sword that is nothing more than a relic.

Arthur doesn't look at Merlin. Instead, he slowly walks as if he means to leave.

Merlin sinks away into the recesses of his conscious as he witnesses Arthur climb to his feet, feeling silently awed. Like a fawn regaining a sense of footing, newly testing its legs, Arthur's weight appears unsteady at first. But he rights himself, without aid, before Merlin can even think of considering moving.

(You're leaving me behind, aren't you?… …)

( _The rest had, too._ )

A cold impression of panic snatches at Merlin's chest, dousing him. The warlock doesn't get the chance to fully react to it, to feel it more acutely, as Arthur glances down into Merlin's eyes. The stare between them runic, and Merlin sees _everything_ all at once.

He has been so very mistaken.

Arthur was not unsteady, not in convictions or in his beliefs. And hardly in his emotions. He had been _terrified_ , lost, distrustful, and confused.

His sadness left marks from the red tint to the whites of Arthur's eyes to the faint wrinkles in his brow and fainter tear-stains to cheeks. But he is far _stronger_. And Merlin should have opened his millenia-hazed eyes a little wider, and recognised this.

Merlin's lips part in continuous, unspoken awe as he stares instead at Arthur's outstretched hand. And untangles his fingers from the grass.

Slowly, he draws to the remaining thing that may save _him_ in the end.

Their hands meet, spreading warmth. And, Merlin clasps on tight to Arthur's thick-sleeved wrist, like it's a desperate want, and heaves up. Somewhere in the manuevering, Arthur's right there against him, holding on. A hand crawling through Merlin's dark hair, gently.

"I doubted you, Merlin." Arthur says, so quietly, "I'm sorry for it."

"You did a lot of yelling." Merlin's eyes are hot and _wet_ , but he laughs into the other man's neck. "If I wasn't so shocked, I might have started yelling too."

The sarcasm is mild from Arthur.

"Yes, that's exactly what we needed," he says. " _More_ yelling."

Merlin shakes his head a little, nose pushed to Arthur's shirt and breathing him in. "You're an arsehole, y'know that?"

"Whatever you say, Merlin."

*

 


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks you guys for reading and commenting and being so supportive and sweet! ♥ My beta reader didn't get the chance to go through the whole chapter due to be very sick so keep some warm thoughts for her please! Any mistakes you see I own up to! And [seasalticecream32](http://archiveofourown.org/users/seasalticecream32/pseuds/seasalticecream32) has done some fantastic **[artwork](http://captainmerlin32.tumblr.com/post/138763329747/for-nooowestayandgetcaught)** for The Catalyst you should check out! As well as a snazzy/ambient **[fanmix](http://8tracks.com/robinmblack/tell-me-you-trust-me)**!! Also you should see when you get the chance! :) I hope you lovelies enjoy this new chapter!
> 
> I'd like to thank [KimliPan](http://archiveofourown.org/users/KimliPan/pseuds/KimliPan/) for betaing and everyone who has supported me so far. As well as my Britpick [ememmyem](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ememmyem/pseuds/ememmyem) who saved my neck. Half of this fic wouldn't exist without [marlena_darling](http://archiveofourown.org/users/marlena_darling/pseuds/marlena_darling) and I wanna say thank you for taking this journey with me and you've been a best friend to me. I love you lots and this is ours.

*

Hours spend themselves into dusk.

The nighttime grows longer and longer, and soon, it will would be upon Merlin's woods.

Well, he supposes that isn't quite true anymore. It's _their_ woods. Arthur's lands, under Merlin's protection and his name.

The reminder brings a small quirk to Merlin's features.

He bends forward, handing Arthur a cup of peppermint linden tea. Neither of them have been very hungry as the day wound on, but there's no gratification in being severely dehydrated.

New talismans hang above doorways in the empty back rooms. Merlin blessed and strengthened his protection runes engraved into the garden gate, as well as the stonework around the cottage.

He won't allow any breach to his wards.

While Arthur takes a few minutes to change into a new set of dry clothes, Merlin confirms once more that Tiamat is deeply asleep, tail curled to her body, nostrils flaring with each inhale.

Their surroundings settle, but not just because of the lack of talking.

Arthur's lips tighten, but he manages to snap out of his daze long enough to take his drink from Merlin, now standing in front of him. Arthur has difficulty meeting his eyes, but he nods in thanks.

Merlin waits until Arthur's hands completely support the coffee mug, before moving away, heading for the next threadbare cushion.

Arthur holds his cup close to his face, inhaling the calming smell. The couch dips under the extra weight, but it isn't until Merlin speaks that Arthur glances over.

"You should get some rest," he says, softly.

Merlin shifts awkwardly in place on the couch, face lowered. "If you wanted it. You look tired, is all. I can sleep out here. I don't mind."

Arthur takes a long drink, eyes dragging away before he rises to his feet, careful not to spill the tea.

"Right," he murmurs, the first word to leave his mouth since returning to this cottage. "I will."

That feeling of obligation, like he owes more of an _answer_ is lost on Arthur. But he walks towards the bedroom. Arthur slips out of the trousers, depositing them on the end of the bed. He doesn't bother to turn on the lights before shutting the door behind him.

The darkness of the room illuminates only by the low glow of moon through the window. Arthur moves sluggishly and then dumps himself onto the left side of the bed like the night before, his body curling into the pillows, the sheets tugging snugly around him.

It's nearly an hour of tossing and turning, hiding his head under the pillow and pressing his eyes shut tight for Arthur to admit it. It's _not_ the same.

The bed feels cold, large, and empty. The pillows no longer smelling of rosemary and the other herbs. Arthur, for the first time, feels like a _stranger_ trying to sleep under the covers.

Arthur rolls onto his back, throwing away a pillow in frustration, eyes staring up at the ceiling.

The woods are no longer between him and the papery walls of the cottage. The trees couldn't even block the memories of what Arthur screamed into the face of the man who brought him the cup of tea.

Now that he has been left with nothing but his thoughts, regret forms in Arthur's chest. The crack in a _supposed-to-be cheerful_ voice, the mournful honesty Merlin spoke with. It all clashes inside Arthur's head along with the harsh snap of his own words. The word 'monster' echoing in Merlin's own voice.

The decision is made before he even starts getting up. Arthur's feet hit wooden floor. He just needs to see him, to _explain_ , to…

Ideas ricochet in Arthur's mind, sentences, maybe confessions. When he opens the door, they all flung out of reach.

"Merlin."

Arthur does not expect to meet him at the door. His own reasons for being up can be veiled with excuses— _more_ blankets, possibly. Merlin, on the other hand, is so very obviously about to _enter_ the bedroom.

*

Merlin didn't look up then, choosing to stare aimlessly at the dark reflection of himself in the surface of water.

But he could feel the slight presence of another. No defiant heat to follow, or indignation.

That was better.

Merlin's thumb stroked along the edge of his cup's rim, pensively. He tried sweetening the usually dry taste of the root, letting a few drops of cool herb mint fuse with the brew. To some meager degree of appreciation, no evidence shown from Arthur to rejecting the taste.

His own mug of tea cradled in the hold of Merlin's palms. He ignored the the sting of heat, dangling his hands between his knees, and noiselessly observing his companion mutter his answer and exit the parlour. Arthur seemed foggy, but docile, and unmistakably calmer.

The journey home occupied little conversation. But as long as Arthur had not released his grip on Merlin's fingers, had not released that constant, warm _stability_ on unhinged reality, the warlock had not mind.

A sense of dulled exhaustion now creeps along the air. Merlin is all too ready to give in, tucking himself on the small couch, denim-covered legs curling in. One of the quilts lying over the back of upper cushions bunches up and yanks in his hand, falling over him.

The smell clinging to it is oddly full, something like a human body odour. Like sweat. He knows his own; it isn't this.

It's _never_ been like this. A pleasant, low electricity droning and lulling his magic at his core. Raising little hairs on Merlin's arms, and making him feel…

_Good_.

Arthur has the ability to make him feel alive—bright-hot and tended. Even when the actual man isn't there by Merlin's side.

He wants Arthur to rest himself, to be allowed to think on more about what happened today and what he wanted further from this life…

But, Merlin also doesn't want to do the same… _alone_.

He's tired of being alone. Tired of facing it all alone. Tired of being under the same roof as Arthur and still feeling millions of leagues away.

Whatever they need to face— _all_ of it—couldn't they together? He and Arthur done everything else, even if Arthur couldn't appreciate it centuries ago. Or had even been aware if it.

But, less selfishly, he also didn't want Arthur to feel alone in this.

( _Sunlight canopied through the background, touching the ends of yellow hair, haloing the weary-looking prince._ )

( _"Have you been here all night?"_ )

Even if Merlin has to wait outside his own bedroom, hunched against the opposite wall, until morning dawns, he can prove his point.

Because, Arthur _isn't_ alone, and never will be again.

He pitches the multicolored quilt aside, stretching his legs out in front of him and padding down the hallway, nylon socks muffling Merlin's steps.

As his strides falter, as Merlin takes his place standing in front of his door, it pulls inward, revealing Arthur straight-shouldered and astonished. Despite the lack of light, it looks as if he been fighting with a rambunctious pillow, or several, and lost his trousers in the process.

Merlin blinks out the ridiculous train of thought, jerking his chin.

"Uhh…" he starts, gazing back into Arthur's examining stare. Merlin scratches under his jaw, letting an unassuming smile perk his mouth.

"Fancy a sit by the fire? I know it can get cold in the room."

And, unsurprisingly, Arthur discovers he's missed the smile more. The tension in his shoulders release as his lungs give a soundless exhale.

"Sure," he hears himself saying. "It's a bit frigid."

Arthur's eyes softens faintly, his guard lowering as he steps back into the room. His eyebrows go up at Merlin in an expression of ' _just wait_ '. He turns, going a few paces back to the bed to snatch the quilt off the end. Arthur knows there is only one out there, and even with the fire there's a chance it would be more freezing.

Because… sharing a blanket may _not_ be a step they are at yet.

Reappearing, Arthur tosses over his arm. With a sidelong glance at Merlin, he heads towards the corridor. Where can they even start?

When he spots the armchairs, Arthur is met with the thought that he doesn't want to sit on anything. He wants to be able to _look_ at Merlin. They have been avoiding eye contact since Arthur stormed out the front door, and he knew it's time to change that.

The blanket spreads out on the floor, and he takes a seat on it, resting against the settee's cushions.

*

Fancy a sit? _Really_?

If Merlin wasn't being so closely observed, he considered running his hands over his face in aggravation.

_Of all the things to say right now…_

He doesn't expect Arthur "fancied" anything at the moment, maybe other than a trip to the loo or going back to sleep. Had he been awaken by something? Was Arthur sleeping at all? Merlin couldn't blame him if he wasn't. How could anyone sleep after the _chaos_ of this last day?

Arthur's quiet sigh did not convey any reluctance or irritation (at least Merlin hopes this is the case).

When the other man agrees, the smile blooming to Merlin's features widens.

As Merlin is left at the doorway, he _does_ notice the chill to the air, and shapes a mental note to go digging around in the next few days and scout out the fleece, winter blankets from the crawlspace.

One of Merlin's arms comes up to rub against his left shoulder, and he dutifully steps out of the path of Arthur leaving the bedroom. Arthur brings back the largest, and thickest quilt, slinging over Arthur's arm. Is… does this mean Arthur wanted company? Or to talk?

There is such thing as _too much_ optimism, he supposes grimly. But it isn't too late in the evening for such a possibility to happen.

Merlin follows behind his friend, to where the hearth of his fireplace steadily grows dimmer and smokier. He immediately goes for a small stack of logs and throws one in.

Glancing over his shoulder briefly, he notices Arthur resting on the floor, arranging himself without saying anything and leaning his back to the settee. There's an impulsive thought to join him there, but Merlin still doubts in a way how reassured Arthur would feel toward it.

Merlin sits up on a cushion, a leg tucked under him, putting appropriate distance between them. Though now he can only see the top of blond hair and Arthur's profile as his head and neck moves.

… Millions of leagues away, yes.

He's still too far from Arthur's understanding, from hearing clarity, like they are opposite sides of a glass wall. An invisible barrier.

His lips cracked-dry and rough, grinding together as Merlin tries to put the right words in his contemplation. _No, don't talk about the lake_. He wants to chide himself when a pocket of nagging, unreasonable heat balloons in his chest, pushing and pushing at him.

It has only been a few hours— it can wait until morning—

Don't talk about _the lake_ — Don't _talk about_ the lake— _Don't_ —

Merlin whispers anyway, voice throaty, eyes going nowhere particular to look, "Why did you go to the lake?"

The thud of his heart battering. Arthur could turn himself to properly look at Merlin and speak what's on his mind. Small talk would feel nothing but fake, like they are passing time until one of them cracks again.

Then, Merlin's voice pierces the air, the question lingering, and Arthur suddenly loses all motive.

Why _had_ he gone to the lake other than to…?

He remains silent, arms folding on his knees pulled up.

"I didn't have anywhere else to go," Arthur finally answers, voice a low rumble. He's neutral, no anger, no bitterness. "Nowhere familiar, at least."

Arthur pauses a moment, words edged on the tip of his tongue.

"I was also… thinking about my sword. Excalibur. I thought perhaps, if I could find it…" he trails off, shaking his head as if to dismiss it. He doesn't know _what_ use to him it is anymore.

*

The question hovers like a sickness, leaking into the crevices and dark, empty spaces left behind for Merlin to soak in. No amount of fire-heat to warm him, not even Arthur's soul-light.

How long can they hold on like this? How long before Arthur decides to leave for _good_?

Arthur's body curls into itself, and his voice lacks emotion. It lacks negativity, and while that's reassuring, Merlin finally has an answer.

His king doesn't find the woods _familiar_ , or the cottage, or even Merlin.

Merlin's teeth sink to the inside of his bottom lip, hard enough to bruise. Merlin _suspects_ that Arthur, in his state of mind, would rationalise returning to Avalon bringing further insight.

But Arthur does not speak this, gives no indication that it had been his motivation. He _does_ mention his sword.

Excalibur had not returned with Arthur.

(Another _unanswered_ question? Merlin did not spare any consideration about the magical item, in the confusion and fear and joy of Arthur's reappearance in this world.)

Merlin glimpses at the head-shake, as if Arthur has stopped himself from going on about the subject.

_Why_ seek the sword, and not council from Avalon? Why not his purpose or…?

A pulse of abhorrent realisation, something so enfeebled and choking that winds around Merlin's voice-box. "Were you going to…?"

( _Kill me._ )

And it fades, it fades so quickly from his bones and blood that it nearly leaves Merlin's head dizzy. It replaces by an flutter of _relief_.

A tremble of a louder breath leaves his lips, something like phantom lulling.

He never imagined of it before.

_Could_ Arthur's sword…?

(It makes sense. Doesn't every fairytale desire an end like this? )

"— _And so the monster was slain with the good king's sword, and the plague upon the land finally lifted._ "

In the increasing muddle of emotion and thought, Merlin does not realise he spoke aloud those formidable, cruel words.

And there is something in Merlin's tone, something heavy that instantly causes Arthur's stomach to churn. Arthur doesn't know what he's _asking—there_ are far too many possible endings.

Until his breath sucks out of Arthur's constricting throat.

_Merlin believes Arthur planned to kill him._

The mix of pure shock at the revelation and a sense of lightheadedness almost sends Arthur reeling.

_No._

That's not why he wanted Excalibur. Even if Arthur had not know what he would have done in retrieving it— _that much_ Arthur understands.

Arthur's head whips around, staring at Merlin incredulously.

"You're _not_ a monster."

His first response is not to justify his own actions. Arthur's voice is low and firm, rushing with the same driving force as before, but with more conviction. There has been doubt before, slipping around, infiltrating the trust Arthur had in the man across from him.

Merlin is lost—a stretched, _tired_ man compared to what he once was. Merlin has made decisions he never would have in their own time, ones Arthur wholeheartedly disagreed with. But he is not a _monster_. Arthur has met monsters, faced them, slain them.

"And I would _never_ —"

Suddenly, the harshness in Arthur's tone is too strong. Arthur swallows to keep his voice from wavering.

*

Merlin's own words filter in, gradually, hazy. They were hush like a soft breeze, and detached. Nearly puts a sputter to the pacing of Merlin's heart.

( _Could_ Arthur do it? For the sake of humanity… could he kill him?)

There would never be a day, as long as Merlin lived and breathed, where he would wish to grant that loathsome thought. To become something so _unrecognizable_ , to be twisted so completely from his own nature that Arthur would be driven to take action against him.

Where he had to stain Arthur's hands with his _own_ blood…

The fire crackles slowly in the background.

_You're not a monster._

And Arthur sounds so absolute in voicing this, looked the part with his eyes wide and set with determination on the other man.

He flat-out _refuses_ to acknowledge the prospect of killing Merlin.

Merlin should have been gladdened, should have taken that honesty to his own beliefs and let them seep in, to banish the crawling and shaming darkness in his empty spaces. But it's never that easy.

Their eyes kept a stern focus, unbroken and constant.

"You're not meant to be at the mercy of my sword, and you never will be, do you understand?" Arthur says.

And then it comes, the overflow, the _bleeding out_. And Merlin is helpless against it, ripping and tearing within himself without lifting a finger.

"… Then what am I?" he asks, chest heaving with breathes shortened and tight. "If I'm not the Merlin you knew, _what_ am I supposed to be?"

Merlin says, confessing with a little, lost half-smile, "All I have… is this. You. You're the only person now who can tell me who I used to be." The tips of Merlin's fingers claw at the threadbare cushion by his own leg, until the pressure begins to hurt. "So _what am I_? The world changed. There was no stopping that. And I know I did too. I'm old."

A humorless laugh escapes Merlin, trembling his mouth. Queasiness stealing up him.

"I'm so _old_ , Arthur," he whispers, raising the back of his hand to press against his face, against his stinging hot eyes when Merlin's head dips to lower. "It scared me… everything I know. Everything I had to do. No one should have to live this long."

Without the mercy of death. _Without mercy or forgiveness._

"But I did. I had to. I want to be _Merlin_. I don't want to be this anymore," the last few words come out more like a stifled, low cry, like being in agony.

And he is… he just wishes it would _end_.

*

The gravity of what Merlin said left Arthur feeling dumbstruck.

Arthur hears his own heart pounding, to chase away a body-chill, but instead they work in tandem to spread it through his whole body.

He _can't_ be serious, Arthur thinks.

Merlin is so calm at first. Not frightened or wounded.

Like he deeply _considers_ the option.

Arthur's gaze is still sharp, shining in defiance, but the luster dims when he witnesses Merlin's barriers crumble down.

He feels his chest aching. Merlin is falling _apart_ at the seams. Arthur has been a fire: loud and devastating in its wake. Yet, Merlin forms ice. Trickling, melting away until the real centre shows itself. Until everything disappears

_All I have… is this. You._

The words, the very same, rages in Arthur's mind since he finished Merlin's tome. After he learned about all he lost. They begged within him, wanting to come out by the lake, during the shouting. Even when he was curled up with Merlin in the early morning, they were there.

So how had it escaped him that Arthur wasn't _the only one_ hurting so badly?

Merlin is old, there is no doubting that. Nearly two thousand years of living. Merlin had to _endure_ this. He went through more than Arthur knew, more than he could possibly imagine, and it hurts. It hurts to know Arthur can't grasp the anguish Merlin had but for himself.

He does not _deserve_ this. Merlin does not deserve _any_ of this. Not his Merlin, not _this_ Merlin, because they are one and the same.

"What you _are…_ " Arthur says, controlling his voice, keeping it even, "is a man."

He hesitates, mulling over it, but then Arthur moves.

He rolls from his sitting position and shifts, kneeling in front of Merlin. Even in a position normally reserved for submitting, Arthur feels a power he half-doubts himself to still carry.

Arthur's hands reach out, clasping firmly to Merlin's legs.

"You are… a man who has seen _more_ than a lifetime. You shouldn't be subjected to this. But, in the end, you waited for me, Merlin. That's something I remember you always doing when it mattered."

Fingers grip tighter, digging into the jean fabric.

"You have made mistakes. You have changed. But you are still my friend, Merlin." Arthur watches him, attempting to meet their eyes. "You're still _my_ Merlin, no matter. The heart you once wore on your sleeve is lost, but it's there. That's _you_. Not your grief or your trials.'

"That heart makes you human. That fear makes you a man. And I shouldn't have made you feel otherwise."

*

Sometimes, he wonders why it _can't_ end.

If Merlin is destined to be the most powerful sorcerer, to walk the earth for eternity, then why does he feel _so much_? This regret, this misery, this pain…

And _why_ do those volatile, long-suffered emotions have to expose themselves to the last person needing to see them? There has been a good reason why Merlin kept the lengths of his despair and building stress, as frail as they seemed, concealed… it's _easier_ to not face them.

It's easier to _bury_ them, as he buried everything else that was once beautiful and light in his better, brighter days.

As it feels easier to play the role of the stoical, unmoved being. Without mercy in himself, and unable to show likewise in stranger or enemy.

Because it _feels_ like he isn't pretending to lose his humanity.

… And then, still, murky water bubbled, and Arthur's head emerged from the depths. The prophetic coming of the Once and Future King blew right into Merlin's deadened, methodical existence. A tempest made of soft-skin limbs and familiar physical lines and scars, carrying old memories and all that unchanged, deep-seeded _humanity_. Merlin senses loss in him, yes, but also devotion and appreciation.

Perhaps it's a disassociation of _empathy_ , at first. Why the set of chains wrapping around what remained of Merlin's bruised heart shatters apart, why he is consumed by sorrow.

He _needs_ to feel regret and faith and sorrow, because it's the old Merlin, as unreachable as that seems. Merlin needs the sensation of Arthur's presence, his strength and his pure heart. How it thudded steady and pressed against Merlin's forehead through Arthur's ribcage. How the sweet, longing breathes passed from Arthur's lips and mouth, bursting into Merlin's core, when they kissed with a demure ambiance, like _happiness_ surrounding.

Or how Arthur's hands now slide over Merlin's knees, the warmth of the gesture muted but no less _real_.

Those hands are a reminder that someone is _still her_ e. That Arthur's words begin to sink in. Arthur is… sorry…

With Merlin's face lowered down, eyes trembling shut and hand grinding, he can not gauge Arthur's expression. But at the declaration of _man_ , at the simplicity and level of the other man's voice, Merlin does look up. He _burns up_ inside as Arthur speaks, cheeks flushed.

There may have been only inches between them, minus the smoothing weight of Arthur's hands with a continuous hold on him, but Merlin feels meaning trickle right into him, washing over him like clean water.

The lost king of Camelot decided to _kneel_ , to Merlin of all souls, and this both stuns and appalls him. Arthur _shouldn't_. The leg tucked under Merlin unfolds, but Arthur's grip firms.

Arthur made it clear he's not moving, nor that he's finished.

He's open to Arthur now, to everything and every _feeling_ , even more helpless and relying on equilibrium brought on by the calm manner of Arthur's murmured voice and the hot mold of large, strong hands.

_My_ Merlin.

A coil of fluttering heat, surprised and oddly bashful, reverberates in Merlin's gut.

_My_.

Dark blue eyes narrow a little, as a tiny, uncertain smile appears on Merlin's face.

That has always been true, in a way. With or without the tendrils of fate closing around them.

He _chose_ to be Arthur's fate. He has said this to Arthur himself before. It gotten either a close-lipped smile or a humoured shake of Arthur's head.

But to hear it from him… to _hear_ that Arthur believes this…

" _M'sorry_ ," Merlin mumbles, nodding. "You shouldn't have to be burdened with this. You're still hurting and confused. I want to make it right, Arthur."

"I'm not the only one," Arthur says in reply.

Merlin's eyes draw to a spot of wetness on the outside of Arthur's right eye.

He reaches out, giving the man plenty of time to lean away if he wishes.

Merlin's thumb linger seconds-long over the space of Arthur's temple and hairline. A warm palm presses against the side of Arthur's face. He doesn't know what Merlin's doing at first, and then recognises the tears and the _gentleness_.

It's strangely natural and reminds him of Arthur doing the same, on the gravel-sewn road, dried blood clinging on yellow hair. Arthur had scolded him lightly then, pushing away Merlin's tears.

There's absolutely no chance this man could ever be a _monster_. Not in Arthur's eyes.

Without thinking, Arthur presses closer into the touch, absorbing the drag of thumb against his temple and the heat cupping to the side of his face.

For a minute, it reminds Merlin of the _past_.

Cradling his king's head, either from an illness or Arthur's sleep. The creases and lines of stern formalities, of concerns for his kingdom, they would vanish from Arthur's face while he was unconscious. Years slipped away, revealing something far more breathtaking.

That righteousness, that _innocence_.

It was so perfect, so untainted despite all the blood shed and the lives slain by Arthur's warrior instincts, and Merlin thought he would burn out the stars to see it remain that way.

"I know it's not all here right now, but I want to help you figure it out. Why you came back to this era," Merlin tells him, dropping his hand. "Bottling up what you're feeling until it tears at you, and not asking questions means I _can't_ help you, Arthur. You need to help me find them with you."

A shuddery breath. Merlin's smile faintens at its corners.

"If you want to find the answers without me one day… that's okay, too." A serious, grim light pierces Merlin's eyes. "This is a new opportunity for you," he explains. "You don't need to feel shackled to me just because we're _friends_ , Arthur. I can teach you how to support yourself; I have resources, money."

This hurts more than he can express. But Merlin _can't_ say it.

He can't guilt Arthur to stay with him.

"I can get you what you need. You can move to Bristol…"

( _Don't leave me, please._ )

"… …get a flat, maybe Gilda can recommend a place…"

"You're an idiot," Arthur says, dully. He regains himself, lips pressing together as he shakes his head. His fingers curls, dragging the fabric of Merlin's trousers.

Arthur hates the _look_ in Merlin's eyes now. The idea of… moving on completely does not sit well with Arthur. This new century is far different than anything he understands. Here and now, he's lower class. A _peasant_. No more royalty, and his whole life is different.

Arthur doesn't want to relearn everything without Merlin.

"I don't want to leave you." Softer now, earnest, he adds, "I _don't_. I can just as easily adapt to this with you."

Merlin's tone gravelly with emotion. "I'd like that," he says, another smile appearing, "very much."

The material of his jeans rasps against the surface of the couch as Merlin scoots off it, waiting for Arthur to receive the cue to back up on his knees.

It may have been a force of habit now, blossomed out of the increasing familiarity of the motion between them, or it is the temptation of _physical_ security—Merlin's arms envelope around the other man, to his neck, as he sinks his weight towards Arthur in their hug.

It's done too-quick and awkwardly placed. He's sure for a split second that their balance could have toppled over. But, Merlin can not care less if they upend on the blanket.

Merlin's entire face pushed to the shoulder in front of him.

"Thank you," he mumbles, loud enough to reach Arthur's ears.

Those two words conveying everything and more. A ' _thank you_ ' more than just to this era, but to the _whole_ of their lives.

Things are better. _They_ are better, he and Arthur. That is all Arthur needs to know.

His chin presses against the side of Merlin's head.

Arthur's hands smooth out the wrinkled shirt, thumb dragging along Merlin's sides before he whispers back, "You're welcome."

*

 


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S BEEN A LITTLE BIT OF TIME BETWEEN THESE CHAPTERS, AND THINGS JUST KEEP HAPPENING. But we're still going good! You get a nice big chapter this time around, and if I'm not mistaken, this is Chapter 30! The big THREE ZERO! We've been going a while, haven't we? Ily guys. Thank you for sticking around. I SWEAR THAT EVENTUALLY THIS DAY WILL END FOR THEM AND THEY'RE GONNA GET SOME SLEEP FOR ONCE. Any comments/thoughts appreciated! :)
> 
> I'd like to thank [KimliPan](http://archiveofourown.org/users/KimliPan/pseuds/KimliPan/) for betaing and everyone who has supported me so far. As well as my Britpick [ememmyem](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ememmyem/pseuds/ememmyem) who saved my neck. Half of this fic wouldn't exist without [marlena_darling](http://archiveofourown.org/users/marlena_darling/pseuds/marlena_darling) and I wanna say thank you for taking this journey with me and you've been a best friend to me. I love you lots and this is ours.

*

Windows bathe in light as the moon hovers higher in the sky, and firelight combats it with shadowy colour.

The stone floor of the parlour feels hard against Merlin's back, but it's cushioned a little with the quilt. Both men are slowly putting anger and doubt behind them, picking up the pieces, and it… feels right all along. No more of the pain in their heart, and they refuse to _bottle it up_.

Unmindful of how long time passed since the 'idiot' comment, Merlin announces the rest of his story. He rests a hand under the back of his skull, laughter wrinkling around his eyes. "—I'm fairly certain that's when Elyan and Gwaine decided the caves weren't worth the trouble. No one expected the bodies of Essetir's knights or the black dogs."

"With you knocked out, it was harder to get around. And they just came at you—" Merlin emphasises his deliberate pause with a finger-snap, "— _like that_. But you should have seen Gwaine beat them off. With a _tree branch_ , a huge one, almost as big as Percival's arm. Roaring like a barmy animal." His smile grows lopsided with his reminiscing. "It would have been a lark if I wasn't ready to pee myself."

Arthur's eyes focus on the ceiling, on the shadows of flames dancing above him as he listens to Merlin. His lips pull in an easy grin, arms crossed loosely over his chest. His whole body relaxing.

Merlin's voice is warm, deep, and enthusiastic in his ear, and keeps Arthur alert.

The story is one he remembers entirely different. But as it's stated, Arthur had been out cold for the duration of it. A low chuckle leaves him as he imagines Gwaine wailing like a savage while flailing about with a branch.

Merlin shifts, his other arm slinging over his stomach. He's aware of where Arthur also lays beside him, but the opposite direction. Their only place of meeting being where their heads nestle, barely touching.

"Turns out the sodding branch was made of holy ash, and they needed to be pierced in the heart," Merlin says, rolling his eyes somewhat. "Took too long to figure out. I should have listened to Gaius earlier."

"I've learned that Gaius was generally _always_ right," Arthur teases, making a point to use the right tense. It would take practice, but the knowledge is real that they—the knights, Gaius— _are_ gone.

For once, the memories don't _hurt_. They come freely, welcomed.

Several remaining logs sit untouched on the steel, low-level rack placed right beside the fireplace itself, and Merlin doesn't move. He doesn't want to chance breaking the surrealism and candor of the moment.

Even if it gets a little colder, a stronger warmth carries in him, heating his veins and his face. An exultant sense of being, of feeling _wanted_.

Another one of Arthur's chuckle rises into the air, hovering to Merlin's ears, and he echoes it, deeper in his chest but no less enthusiastic.

It's so strange how the memories are all there. Jaded as they can be, often shoved away in fear of the painful remembrance. As many of Merlin's most sacred treasures were shoved into satchels and boxes, gathering dust. Camelot's years also gathered dust, inside Merlin's brain, but retelling them to Arthur… it breathes them to _life_ again.

Familiar, shining and not tarnished millenniums-old.

At the mention of Gaius' name, Merlin's smile does not fade completely from him, nor his spirits dampen. A more pensive nature enfolds him.

He nods, head shifting the quilt on the floor. A whisper.

"Gaius really… was."

Merlin stays quiet a moment, eyes lingering on a spot of dark wall.

"I think he knew," he adds, keeping his muscles loose and breathing even. Not allowing the fragments left of devastation and sorrow from filtering in. "I think Gaius knew before he went to sleep that he wasn't going to wake up in the morning. He left out his medicine bag. He hugged me good night." A contemplative, light-sounding huff, as if Merlin is mildly dismissive. "He hadn't done that in _years_."

The subject is not an easy one; they are no longer speaking of friends recently greeted in the corridors. Merlin is no longer being his annoying, pesky self nagging Arthur. Now he's telling him of the life Guinevere had without him. The life all the people Arthur knew without him. Putting it in that a harsh perspective is difficult. Soldiering through is what Arthur has.

Even so, the air remains calm.

The conversation doesn't start on the knight oor of Guinevere. Instead, Merlin chooses to stay on the path of Gaius. His voice soft, careful almost as he speculates, and Arthur wonders if he had spoken of this since the man passed. He stays quiet, paying silent respect to a man who had been a second father to him throughout his life. Arthur had never been given the chance to hug his Uther before he passed, but Arthur is sure it would have felt like an omen, too.

"Gaius had been a physician a long time. I think he knew what his own body was telling him. And he didn't want me to be afraid of the fact that he was leaving soon." The warlock rolls his eyes to glance back the flicker-shadow ceiling of the cottage, face beginning to strain.

"He had to see me after you passed," Merlin said, quivery. "He had to take care of me, and… I don't think Gaius wanted me in that state again."

_What had that been like?_

Merlin spoke of it in his tome, but at the time Arthur had only been reading parts. Mostly though, he isn't sure he wants to know. Arthur doesn't want the mental image of what his passing had done to Merlin, after Camlann, after returning home.

Not when he had already seen the tears brimming, spilling out as Merlin held him during his last breaths. Arthur never wanted to see him in that sort of _agony_ again.

It's no surprise to Arthur that Gaius would try to spare Merlin. He was the man's son through and through, and it was a selfless move that the physician would pull. Merlin holds himself together despite the subject, and Arthur can't help but feel a little proud of him.

A soft clenching forms around Merlin's throat, but he gulps it down.

"He had a proper burial, like everyone wanted. A man named Cadell eventually came to work in Gaius' chambers and took the job when it was offered. I didn't want to quit being an apprentice so I worked alongside him," Merlin explains. "Cadell had no real status other than his proficiency with herbs and roots. He confessed to me that the job was tiring and that he lived in one of the outlying villages, and missed being close to his family."

Arthur would have settled for nothing less than Merlin for the position, but what's confusing is _Merlin_ not taking the opportunity. Despite how often he criticised Merlin's skills, Merlin understood Merlin was indeed best suited for the position.

Merlin studied under Gaius for years and absorbed the information.

It's what kept Arthur and his men _alive_.

Arthur's lips go into a small frown, having to bite back his questions.

The man—this _Cadell_ —must have been good, but he didn't have Merlin's instincts or qualifications. He didn't understand Camelot and its people.

It wasn't the only thing evidently, for Merlin. Cadell was no expert in treating severe, deep wounds. Not the kind of turnout from battles in or around Camelot, and ended up assisting Merlin during those emergencies. The older man believed Merlin had far more experience and talent, and should have volunteered for the position a long time ago.

In a way, it was flattering, but in another… Merlin had no desire to _replace_ Gaius.

"Cadell resigned, but it settled everything peacefully. Gwen came to me a day or two later and wouldn't take no for an answer," Merlin says, a fond grin splitting the heaviness in his expression. "I had to respect that."

 _Of course_ Guinevere wouldn't take no for an answer, and Arthur is glad for it. She always knew what was best, and always had.

"Good, someone had to talk some sense into you," Arthur mumbles.

Merlin turns his head, eyeing him.

"… I meant what I said. You can ask me anything, I owe you that." Merlin's smile softens in reassurance. "And you can tell me whatever you need to."

Arthur considers it, turning to face him as well.

"I know we already spoke of it," he says. "But I want to know how they were after everything. Percival, I know…" He had left not long after Gwaine, and Arthur can't fault him. "But, Leon. And… Guinevere. I'd like to know how they went on."

*

With the same grin, the warlock observes him, inches from Arthur. No longer feeling haunted, and seeing none in the other man.

He knew Arthur for years while the kingdom of Camelot still stood proud and tall. Merlin knew Arthur nearly inside and out, having spent every waking moment either beside him or to do a chore for him. Merlin knew the commonplace or destructive habits… Arthur's sense of humour and even when it clashed with Merlin's own… Merlin knew when it was the right time to withdraw from a bickering match or a sensitive conversation.

(Even if he chose to ignore the obvious, to provoke Arthur until he reacted.)

It would have been very, very wrong to mistake the gleam of loyalty and sincerity in Arthur's eyes, when he stares what is left of Merlin.

They are here _now_. Unafraid of each other.

Every terrible and unpleasant thing said isn't… mended, but they can move on.

And so, what Arthur desires to know now is about Leon. And Guinevere. Two of the few remaining friends both he and Merlin shared.

Merlin's toes spread their arch inside the compass of his socks as he searches his thoughts. The starry celestial-novelty print of the sock-cloth rather silly.

But as it is… existence is rather silly, isn't it? How the fibers of this little, blue planet contort and release themselves, how people gradually change their views, how everyday miracles occur and how the barest tokens of kindness are shown at the worst of times…

Despite not wanting to stand out more than necessary, despite vanishing into the penumbra of time and leaving behind a sensational, falsified image in the minds of men, as well as woman and children alike—Merlin's wardrobe indicate perhaps something different.

Feeling empty is one thing (and quite a practiced, easy feat in his life), but trying to feel _normal_ , trying to fit in for Merlin… is far more knotty.

The eye-bleeding color combinations, the patterns, the ugly jumpers, and the ill-fitting jeans could have been an attempt at normal. But so out of touch with others, it looks like Merlin tries _too_ hard.

For once, failing at something erratically and seemingly important curls up the ends of Merlin's lips with silent, dry amusement.

"They were happy," Merlin says deliberately. That's the first thing he supposes Arthur should know. "Healthy. Leon was… devoted to the cause. Devoted to his fellow knights and to his queen."

"Gwen had a broken heart," he murmurs, examining Arthur's face carefully. "But, she did amazing things with it. Showed so much compassion and mercy to her people. I was so _proud_ of her, and believed you would have been, too."

It's _odd_ , in a way, hearing this from Merlin. He had been good friends with Gwen as long as Arthur could remember. He found their relationship both helpful and intimidating all at once.

Then, Arthur married her.

He died, and then she died.

And now, in this many centuries later, he and Merlin… are together.

Well, Arthur doesn't know _what_ to call it. But it's no newer in his heart than his adoration for Guinevere. They were both deeply attached to his heart permanently.

He knows Merlin watches, so Arthur takes a slow breath and continues to listen. He had no doubts that Guinevere would do the kingdom the good it deserved. She had a _strong_ , kind heart, one that could be used to lead . Arthur could not have left the kingdom in better hands.

"Yes," he whispers. "I am very proud, too."

Merlin smirks, blue eyes alight with good-humored teasing. "Well, she found love again, with time. He was far less of a prat than you. On that alone, I had to approve."

That leaves a sudden stirring in Arthur's chest, yet it's _warm_ and glad. She deserved a life full of love and happiness, even if it had not come from him.

Arthur's elbow nudges him.

"He didn't have to suffer through your prattling, I suppose."

"Occasionally."

"Who was it?" Arthur says, attempting to sound uninterested, but it's no use. Merlin laughs at him.

"You really want to know?"

"Yes, _Mer_ lin. You might as well get on with it! Was he a good king?" At the back of Arthur's mind— _was he better than me?_

Merlin's smile doesn't waver.

"Gwen didn't want a _king_ exactly," he explains. "When she married Leon, he became the Queen's Consort."

Arthur takes this in, going quiet.

The man had been his second-in-command since Arthur was allowed to lead his own men. That loyalty had never once was called into any real question. Sir Leon had been one of Arthur's closest friends. Arthur loved Guinevere, with every part of himself, but there's no jealousy. There's _relief_ in the comfort she received, and the love she needed.

"That's good." Arthur nods, face relaxing. "She moved on. It's good she had you with her, Merlin. There's no one more I would have trusted."

*

A low sigh escapes Merlin, tapestries of tension unraveling, shackles of once scornful emotion breaking apart.

Many, many hundred centuries since passed, since Camelot's golden era prospered, since he witnessed the joyful faces and colorful rag-decorated streets.

He had not breathed a syllable of that radiant, secret world held up now by only the pillars of his mind, all of those glowing keepsakes, all of _his_ world—not to another soul for the past hundred years.

No one else could understand. They had not lived his memories as he did; they could not recognise Merlin's sorrow or his fear or his pain.

But Arthur does. He _does_ , and Merlin knows he can trust opening up about Gaius in the beginning. Arthur had known Gaius for longer, bonded with him, allowed Gaius to be a part of his personal council. He respected Gaius' wisdom and his advice and _no one_ else but Arthur…

No one else understood how close Merlin and Gaius had been.

He's sure his expression keeps together, even while being so closely observed, Merlin feels something in him tremor with overwhelming and unspoken sadness.

Legends—their legends—never knew of Gaius. The kindly, elderly physician and one of the cleverest men Merlin ever known.

But… truth is, the world did not need to acknowledge his story. Gaius could live on forevermore in Arthur's memories, in his heart, in _theirs_.

That is to be satisfactory enough.

Arthur's eyes, almost too deep a shade of blue against the shadow-light, quickly flick over Merlin's face. He feels Arthur's head give a contemplative, gentle bump against his.

"Oi," Merlin lets out a mild complaint, huffing out a laugh. The muscles in his body loosening.

His fingers stretch out as Merlin's arm bends up, seeking out the space above Arthur's head. The back of Merlin's fingers and his nails stroke the top of Arthur's head, combing away fine, blond strands.

As Merlin continues speaking of Gwen, of her deeds and of her mourning, he does not remove his hand, not even as a flicker of sentiment hovers across Arthur's features and as Arthur's lips tilt up with distanced happiness.

Guinevere and Arthur: Queen and King of Camelot.

They were a love forged of a boundless forgiveness, of cherishing and respecting each other. They had been _meant_ from the very beginning, at least in Merlin's eyes.

Even while his own feelings danced along to a mismatched tune of his own devotion for Arthur, sang for him in longing and concealed words too shy to do more than whisper… Merlin wouldn't have wanted Arthur with anyone else _but_ Gwen.

The love in their hearts was plain for any citizen of their kingdom or any outside noble to see.

Merlin had not truly been _ill-willed_ of Mithian at the marriage arrangement… he simply could not see that same love. He got on Arthur's nerves throughout the years, joking that it had been obvious, endearing the blunt hits to his head, and doing the same to Gwen who would chuckle and blush and shove at Merlin's arm playfully.

" _There's no one more I would have trusted."_

Merlin's head turns back to the ceiling, eyes fogging slightly with the pummeling emotions in his chest.

"To hear you say that," he says, voice tight. "… M'glad for it, Arthur."

Merlin slips out his hand from under his resting head, rubbing under an eye with several curled fingers before letting it fall. The other hand still touching against Arthur's hair, fingering the ends.

"It must seem strange, talking about this…? Feels like you looked away for a moment, and in that short time, everything was gone. _Everyone_. You looked back, and… it doesn't process right. Everything should be where it was. You were only looking away for _one_ moment."

Merlin's bottom lip drags beneath his teeth flashing out, as he gathers his words to be expressed.

"But for me, it went on until everything seemed to go too slow. Like I couldn't look _away_." Merlin glances at Arthur's expression, eyes hollow and yet imploring on the other man. "All that… all that was lost felt magnified. It crawled over me, it felt like… being suspended. Like being trapped in a shell, in my own body that wouldn't _die_ like everyone… else."

"Between the two, I think sometimes I'm not sure what's worse."

*

Would it ever be easier? Arthur wonders if someday, the thoughts of his friends and his people wouldn't cause an ache and this sorrow.

On that first evening of returning to Merlin's world, there had been hardly any thinking at all. Arthur's mind had been spinning out of his control, his heart pounding in his ears so loud that it was impossible to think of anything but getting sleep. He had been in shock.

Denial, as well. Arthur knows that now.

Merlin's tome and all its tales forced Arthur to come to terms with reality. The pain had been there, building up into a seed, blooming into a thorny vine over the days.

Looking back on it now, all those words spoken, all Arthur's panic and rage are blurred. But most of all, they came from a fear. _Fear_ of the unknown, of the change so obvious in Merlin.

In the lack of Merlin shining through. Arthur had been _afraid_ , and instead of reacting against as he should have, Arthur lashed out.

That was a mistake in his day he couldn't have afforded, and Arthur knows that he can't do that now either.

It still hurts a little, but it's quelled by the heat of the room. There's no bitterness, no sadness. Only reflection in the comforts of each other's presence. They are both so desperate for the _good_ memories, to be able to reminisce and not feel as incredibly alone as they are. Too worn down to do anything else, and he's okay with that.

At some point, the feeling of touch ran through Arthur's hair, brushing strands away in a featherlight tempo. It's soothing, and vaguely reminds Arthur of the nights where he and Guinevere lay together, speaking in hushed tones.

That is no longer an occurrence between them. It's not her fingers laced with the tips of his hair. _Merlin_ is the one lying beside him. It's _his_ hand brushing against him.

Arthur has not told himself anything different.

He knows it is Merlin, and he _wants_ it to be Merlin. Knowing that Arthur had him here is one of the reasons it's alright talking about this.

Because Merlin _understands_.

Through the accusations and strain they underwent, that will never change.

The way Merlin phrases Arthur's own perspective hits a little too close to the heart, but the fighting worn away at the sensitive nerves that would have made Arthur tense or cringe.

Instead, Arthur accepts his words as truth, his head giving a miniscule nod as his attention drifts momentarily. His own death happened so fast after that last goodbye. Arthur could have sworn he had only _slipped away_ for a few seconds.

Then, Merlin begins to describe it all for him, and the more he says, the more Arthur realises he hasn't been too far off.

Merlin has seen more than he should have, has been exposed for far too long. Like a man who never left the battlefield, Merlin becomes immune to what he is seeing. The hollowness in his eyes replaces the _wonder_ that Arthur admired so long ago.

"They're both horrible in their own right," Arthur says. "No one should have to feel like that."

Arthur's right hand slides up, reaching until his fingers reach around Merlin's wrist by his head.

"Especially not you."

It's been an uphill battle since he returned from the dead and rose from the lake.

All the things in life Arthur known, gotten used to, they are _gone_. The people he knew, gone. Even Merlin is gone, replaced almost entirely with another man.

Or at least, that was the mindset that caused Arthur to boil over.

Everything is different, and so far, Arthur hasn't been able to adapt. Not yet. He has no other choice but to pick up the pieces and try to move on and _understand_ the world he lives in now.

And Merlin has given him the chance to do that, practically offered it—away from the _magic_ and the man that has grown bitter in his absence. Arthur could move out, try to start out a life of his own.

Merlin _is_ different; there is no denying that. He has been beaten down and tore by the world. A cynical creature who forgot his true power. He forgot where he came from, what Arthur had always known he stood for. Merlin stood for _good_. Equality. Laying here, staring into fire-flickering eyes accompanied by the faintest of smirks, Arthur knows that man hasn't left him.

Like _always_ , Arthur will never leave that man behind either.

*

A soft breath from Arthur's mouth, brushing warm to Merlin's face, somewhere in this dim, hazed reverie of theirs.

A world their own, while sheltered to the opacity of flame-light and a quiet musing.

No words come along with it. Nothing that suggests Arthur wishes to speak no more of a grim interval of reality. It is _their_ reality now.

The turnings of the world never ceases, not for anyone. Fate and its inclination towards cruelty interweaves each other, tainted and circling, until so much blood spills… until you could feel madness creeping upon you, breathing down your neck… until it was behind your eyes, shaping your fears and your hopes and making them one entity.

It _shapes_ a man… no longer feeling the capacity of being one.

(Whatever obstacle comes now… they face it together. As they once have. As friends and as a brilliant, new-found glimmer to their hearts.)

(Or not at all.)

And Merlin is, without proper words to describe the feeling, _glad_. He needs… god, he _needs_ Arthur here with him. To stay of his accord and his own mind. Even if his king may not trust Merlin completely anymore, even if he still resents him, it's enough to understand that Arthur wholeheartedly makes his decision.

Merlin's fingers pause their thoughtful motions to yellow strands of hair, as larger fingers slide up his wrist, holding gently to the warlock.

A flutter of heat steals up him. He listens to Arthur's words, letting them come over him like a slow blaze, crackling under Merlin's skin.

Merlin eyes the other man's face. It reveals little expression other than a tiny smirk growing with awe. Perhaps he couldn't help himself, when Merlin leans his head forward, and thinks no more of second-guessing. Leaving it to a content, voiceless fog as his lips nudge lightly to the point of Arthur's nose.

They remain to the floor, their heads flat down and cheeks cushioned to the quilt, gazes level. Arthur's hand grasps loosely to Merlin's fingers above him, whether to keep him in place now or not it doesn't matter.

Merlin shifts his body, rolling to his side slightly, eyes hooding and his lips touching again, to the curve of Arthur's upper lip.

It feels less like kissing and more of a show of _presence_ , of comfort. Grounding the other man to where he is, where they _can_ be.

The faintest of warm shivers up Arthur's core.

"You told me before that I surprised you," Merlin whispers, tilting his head out, the next breath deepened and rasped. "A long time ago."

"But, really… _you_ are the person who surprises me. Every day."

The faint resemblance of a laughing smile passes across Merlin's face.

Arthur's other hand comes to a rest on the back of Merlin's head to cup it there. His thumb drags over soft, thick hair before Arthur uses the pull, deciding to answer with a kiss.

Something dances behind Arthur's attentive expression, behind those eyes. Eyes that Merlin had been dreading never seeing once more, not alight with compassion or with self-righteous indignation, or even wariness, if Kilgharrah's prediction had been… mistaken.

Deep beyond the tempting blue of Arthur's eyes, he could gently take Merlin apart with a single, unspeaking look. Examine the dull-glow slivers left over a hundred lifetimes spent, with one soul and one body to carry it, of Merlin's own soul and the damaged recesses of his heart.

It isn't… maybe it isn't… not entirely a form of "compassion" or "love" Arthur carries for him.

Certainly, it's new. An aspect of it, in any case. Their friendship never suggested more. Nobility didn't let their minds dwindle on "feelings" much less to someone with lower station at the time.

Merlin understood that _fully_ given how many times he tried to pry, to halt Arthur in his quarters, surrounded by the light of the candelabrum. To get him to _confide_ in Merlin as if they were proper equals and proper friends, and not forever a master and servant. It never did turn out right.

It could have been possible that Arthur never let on. To whatever complicated emotion he kept hidden. _Pft_ , Arthur. Complicated emotion.

With a silent, dismissive huff, Merlin shoves it away. But with no avail.

Yes, Arthur is human, and humans are _terribly_ complex things. On the rating of bog-standard, Arthur is far from it. He is an _impossible_ thing. A different "impossible" from Merlin, but an impossible made _possible_ after returning from Avalon, whole and alive with every memory intact.

(It isn't just Arthur. It has been Merlin, too. Keeping his mouth shut about "feelings" he thought would fade in time, would grow weaker. In retrospect, it really… what a _lark_ that idea is. Merlin would continue to hold that torch for Arthur until his immortality burned out.)

During his time wandering, in and out of these woods, Merlin remembered the ancient Greeks. Their beautiful language. There were four different forms of "love" according to their culture and their speech. The most common being of a modern-period understanding was " _eros_ "—of physical love. He had seen it in many people. A love that went beyond familial, that gave off desire and appreciated their beauty. Merlin thought for a time he may have felt that for… others. Many others.

If he couldn't pinpoint a definition for Arthur, then he knew at least this: A love like "agápe" — selfless love, truer and greater and more _unconditional_ than the others. A love that needed nothing, if nothing could be given.

Like a devoted, overflowing love to a god from a follower, no matter how fallacious his god had been, how Arthur had been a lamb to slaughter in Camlann. No matter if lamb or god, no matter flawed or heavenly, Merlin would _follow_ him. Until the end of everything.

"What?" Merlin murmurs out, seeing Arthur's eyes as they gaze over him intently. Not really asking for an explanation, but letting it linger. The answer comes with silence and Arthur's mouth pressing, swooping up for his.

There are some who believe standing too close to a sun would burn you alive. But, they had never felt the sensation of _burning_ alive in public. Or rather no one ever _lived_ it.

Merlin found that there are no words to describe one of the longest hours of his existence, how the choking, black smoke filled his watering eyes and throat. How he could _smell_ his flesh bubbling, his clothes melting away, before the blinding agony spurred everything else.

Arthur is like a flame, and yet… there is no pain, no resemblance to those dark times. He burns across Merlin's face, bringing rise to color and heat, with soft breathes. Tingling his skin.

Merlin wants to remain here, in this moment. No more darkness. No more of those twisted, archaic memories.

He tilts his chin downwards, trying to catch Arthur's lips in another harder kiss, bringing his free hand to cradle under Arthur's upside-down chin, fingers loose.

Both men resemble a coil, their arms and heads locked together in a gentle embrace, trying to latch to each other for some sort of reminder that this is where they are.

It's hardly practical, but Arthur doesn't care. They are warm and close by the fire. The murky bite of the water no longer pulling at his legs, and or the cold forest floor at his feet.

"Y'know," Merlin points out after a minute, eyes bright and teasing, "it's very difficult to snog with the other person facing the _wrong_ way."

"I didn't pick the position," Arthur says, arguing quietly.

"Any special way you'd _like_ me then?"

Arthur groans a little, letting him go and scrubbing his hands over his face. "You are impossible," he mutters.

Merlin grins, eyeing his companion before pushing up to his elbows. Arthur very well doesn't look approving of the decision of moving, and likely will find a reason to complain.

He stares down at the other man on his back, still seeing Arthur from the wrong angle, but finding him no less _magnificent_ of a figure. All of the large angles of his muscular body, his cheekbones, the firm shape of Arthur's lips.

The hours of this one day seem to dragged on forever, and ever, until at last starless evening overtakes the light. It's far better that this day would end. Merlin has no desire to relive it.

Even if it is a possibility for the troublesome day to end on a high note.

No one has been in the mood to discuss their next course of action, about Mab and what she spoke of, about Tiamat, about the fight, and… there isn't a need for it. Not at the moment, not for the day.

The air around them remains effortless, comfortable.

His face lowers towards Arthur, their eyes meeting.

Merlin says, just out of reach if Arthur's head inclines for him, "Go on." His lips parting. A spark of _excitement_ in his stomach. Merlin's grin steady as he sits back up. "How close do you want to be?"

Arthur's expression won't give away any form of irritation but it does to his mild displeasure.

"Who said I wanted to be anywhere near you?"

His lips curl again in amusement, as Merlin says in response, "No, I suppose you didn't…"

Arthur's eyebrows tilt up, or _down_ by Merlin's viewpoint.

Now fully sitting up, hands planted on either side of Arthur's head, Merlin can lean his head downwards, glancing at the other man.

A long, purposeful hum. Merlin's grin softens apart, as he murmurs, staring into paler blue eyes, "Forgive me then, _milord_ …" Merlin lets the single word drawl slowly from his lips, lingering like an aftertaste of honey-sweet essence. "I must have misunderstood you."

One of Merlin's own eyebrows lift up, nearly as good of an impression as Gaius's skeptical looks.

"Perhaps I should leave you to rest," he says in fake-candid blankness. Starts to adjust on his knees for a stand, removing his hands from the floor and beside Arthur's head.

Though he desires the opposite, Merlin will not let their game stray off-course. He just has to wait.

It's been awhile since Arthur heard any actual utterances referencing to his status, not including the false kingship that came with his success at the faire.

He hasn't made it necessary for Merlin to _continue_ such things once his situation set in; he was a king of a kingdom that no longer existed. Royal titles need not apply.

Yet, Merlin's voice in the air, low and smooth as ' _milord_ ' catches Arthur's attention. Not quite mocking while not completely serious, Arthur only assumes Merlin threw it in there for his own advantage. It certainly works, too.

"Perhaps you should," Arthur says, smiling.

Even when Arthur's face slightly turns, eyes peering to roaring firelight, Merlin knows he's very much paying attention. To every lithe of breath sounding, to every rustle of movement.

Arthur _pretends_ to deny him. In actuality, he would no sooner deny Merlin's existence in this world than he would harm an innocent, or turn down a challenge from an offender.

To understand that now, to feel it, is… a good realization.

Merlin knows full well what his intents are in addressing Arthur in a higher status, as if they are still back Camelot and still caught in their separate roles.

He gets a little bit of snugness out of the amazed look. It doesn't last long.

Large, familiar-warm fingers sink into the material of Merlin's tee-shirt, as Merlin's world tilts around and down until he's deposited flat onto the quilt, the back of his head cushioned by the opposite hand of Arthur's to prevent harsh impact. He allows himself to be manhandled, in Arthur's expertly-quick reflexes. Facing him once more, this time as the person staring up.

Arthur's knee finds a cozy spot between his legs and pressing down softly to Merlin's abdomen, holding him in place. One of Merlin's own legs curls and tenses to Arthur's hip on pure instinct. Arthur's words, like buzzing insects, in and out of his hearing, droning and yet unfathomably clear.

"But I don't remember me _telling_ you that you could leave—do you?"

The previous blank expression on Merlin's face perks with dry amusement, as he let out a near-breathy chuckle.

"I think you've forgotten it's my home, and I should do what I like in it." Merlin's lips feel parched, burning and wanting more skin-contact, and find some relief with the wet drag of tongue peeking out. "That includes wandering about when _I_ see fit," he adds, mirroring Arthur's smile.

After a fair amount of tumbling around and shifting, trying to find the best possible position to keep his captive down, Arthur considers it's fairly obvious that he should be deemed the winner.

A rush of air leaves Arthur's lungs as he discovers himself on top of the other man, his body tense and careful of placement. A hand underneath Merlin's head, cradling it as his fingers dig into sable locks. He can feel the weight of Merlin's leg against his hip, the heat of his skin muffled through his shirt, and their bodies once again melding together as if they can hardly be kept apart.

Having Merlin in his grasp again brings mischief i in Arthur's expression, and the fact that the warlock doesn't bother struggling feels like a _nother_ victory.

"I disagree," Arthur murmurs down to him.

"… _I don't_ believe I asked for your opinion on the matter," is a coy whisper. It floats from Merlin's lips before they are happily captured in Arthur's own mouth.

The tip of Merlin's forefinger traces along a bold red line, a possible scratch, to Arthur's jaw. He wonders silently on its presence, how it came to be. The tracing must have set off the smallest shiver through the other man, because Merlin _feels_ it pass through him, where they press together, where their mouths slot, opening and closing.

The rest of Merlin's fingers join the first, cradling Arthur's jaw, threading them as far as he can into Arthur's hair as the fingers in Merlin's own hair clench.

He gently nips around the soft flesh to Arthur's lower lip, savouring any and all returns of such actions.

Arthur's hands, his body language comes off non-aggressive, his gaze bright-eyed and unspoken with satisfaction. Probably to do with rolling Merlin exactly where he wants him—the overly competitive prat.

 _Wants_ …

Like a hit of electricity, Merlin's nerves are hyper-aware, jolting him. Aware of where Arthur's knee is, and where fingers deeply tangle in hair, skin-warmth pushing against Merlin's scalp.

He _wants_ Merlin.

This touch, this closeness. There is no denying this. Not anymore.

Merlin's first instinct, old, old instinct from his years of solitary, is to escape the weight of the other man. Shove Arthur off, avoid his eye and leave the room, leave the cottage and get some fresh air. Gather his bearings, run his hands over his face and _not_ think. Laugh feverishly into the night air, claw his nails into his cheeks, because what the _hell_ is he thinking?

How did they manage to fall so easily into this? Bypass all the other developments to their relationship and feel so naturally into seeking such physicality?

It's not that Merlin doesn't _want_ him back… that would have been a lie. And he would not tolerate lies in his life, or to Arthur, anymore.

They do not kiss in soft touches, under the rainy umbrella, curious lips and serene hush. But it's not edged with desperation, in the shadows of the hallway, gulping down heat and raking hands.

Somewhere between the two, they linger. Kissing with no expectations to them, not needing reassurance or a pull from reality.

Merlin's thumb slides along the line of firm jaw, forth and back, feeling slight prickling where tiny hairs are. He lets out a muffled, louder breath to Arthur's mouth, when Arthur's teeth grind to his lip. A sweet-sharp pain, lessened by the cool sweep of Arthur's tongue.

It's _perfect_. The kind of punishment Merlin relishes.

"Mmh," a throaty noise, more rumbling incoherency than a statement. Merlin loses the angle for deeper kissing, letting the weight of his head fall back, lips coloured red.

"Whoever taught you to kiss like that," he mumbles, a touch of glee to his expression. "I hope they lived a long and eventful life, at the very least." It's an off-handed comment, not terribly serious and more inclined to the degree of their banter.

Flirty, relaxed and mirthful, and as much as Arthur would have liked to take it as such, that's not the case.

Arthur's grip loosens, eyes losing their focus. His lips pull to a tight frown as he glances away, feeling a sudden rush of guilt. How can he have pushed that away for so long? Why does it have to be _now_ of all times, when his relationship with Merlin begins to rebuild?

Perhaps that is _exactly_ why.

Arthur sits back a little, the distance gaining.

This should have been a conversation for another time, but the words already slip out. "They didn't," he says, his eyes slowly raising to meet Merlin's.

"… _He_ didn't. At least not as long as he deserved."

Merlin's lip still throbs.

He knows that look on Arthur. Knows it very well when peering into a mirror's reflection. The crushing weight of _memories_.

Arthur's hand to the floor twitches, as the other man climbs off of him. Is it _his_ fault? What had Merlin said?

Silence continues hanging around them, but Merlin doesn't feel it's his turn to speak. He leans up on his elbows, peering over his companion with soft prying. And then Arthur meets his gaze, and it nearly squeezes the air from Merlin's lungs. Too many emotions hazing together, mimicking a crawl over Merlin as they register plainly.

Regret, sorrow, wrought… confusion…

 _So much_ regret.

But not this moment. It's for the memory clinging darkly to Arthur's mind.

Merlin had not meant to be… a catalyst.

_("… He didn't.")_

He. A nameless man in Arthur's past. Nameless at least for the moment.

Merlin can't say he feels dismay or shock. It only seems right to imagine Arthur had affections before Gwen. Arthur wasn't made of unmovable stone, or _quite_ as much of a cabbagehead as Merlin claimed he was to his face.

If he thought Arthur was narrow-minded about his affections, towards men versus women, it would have been clear from the beginning.

He would not have been inclined to grasping at Merlin's waist, looping fingers to belt holes and yanking his ex-manservant with closer proximity when they spent time exploring each other's space and mouths against the kitchen work-top, Merlin's limbs to him.

As long as the nameless man deserved…? Is that what Arthur said?

"What happened to him, Arthur?"

They aren't supposed to be talking on more hurtful subjects. But something has grasped at Arthur's mind and it eats away at him. And Merlin would have it _gone_.

"Tell me," he murmurs, eyeing Arthur.

*

 


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This year keeps getting busier and busier, doesn't it? Crossing my fingers on a new job where I'm getting more hours and better pay. But anyway, back to the chapter, I'M KINDA REALLY EXCITED ABOUT THIS ONE??? Arthur's voice very nicely shines in this and his open admittance for loving another man, and how his sexuality had been repressed by his father, and how Merlin came into play for all of this. I hope you loved this new chapter too and any thoughts/comments/questions are so so appreciated! Thank you! :)
> 
> Half of this fic wouldn't exist without [marlena_darling](http://archiveofourown.org/users/marlena_darling/pseuds/marlena_darling) and I wanna say thank you for taking this journey with me and you've been a best friend to me. I love you lots and this is ours.

*

Arthur never wanted to intentionally ruin the moment.

He is, for the moment, _happy_. Merlin's happy as well, and he feels secure. They are comfortable and enjoying themselves, which is much more than Arthur hopes to expect after the day they had. Now he's breaking the unspoken agreement: no more talking, just recovering. Moving on.

He especially hates the fact that now there are… memories lingering dusty in the front of his mind.

As he sits in silence with Merlin staring with growing concern, Arthur realises where his hesitancy before stems from. Now he understands _why_ he has always backed away, retreated and withdrawn too soon and not charged forward as Arthur has done with many other subjects. How his mind didn't instantly make the connections… Arthur doesn't know.

It's so crystal clear behind the fog of distant memories locked away, and it takes Merlin's quiet voice to bring him back.

Arthur's chest jerks faintly as he forces himself to breathe in, but instead of answering right away. Arthur stares back at Merlin with strained contemplation.

He doesn't _want_ to talk about this, but not only can Arthur keep pushing things down, he knows Merlin won't let him if he tries. Merlin has reason to question Arthur's judgment when it comes to holding back. But these are memories _pushed_ under the surface years ago, ones he hasn't given another thought since the first year or so of Merlin's arrival into his life.

Arthur kept them caged down for a reason… yet here the story is, bubbling to the surface at last when he expected it never to see the light of day.

Arthur gives in and releases a stiff groan as he fully reclines back, his back pressing to the couch.

For a long moment, he only gazes at the fire, listening to the crackling of the flames. This was a story never meant for Merlin's ears, and Arthur has to work himself up to speaking.

"Becoming a prince, I was expected to learn the etiquette of handling the sword and to train under the knight's code. I found I excelled far beyond the skill of other men to me. Soon enough, my father had me training with his knights. Most had other duties in the court to attend to besides watching over me. But then, there was Sir Kay."

His lips gives the faintest of bittersweet smiles, Arthur's gaze staying on the fire as he pauses.

"Kay was a few years older, and one of the youngest knights in our guard. But he was brave and proved his loyalty. He taught me most of what I know, introduced me to others, including Sir Leon. But he also became my tutor, and in the process one of my closest friends."

A friend Arthur hasn't allowed himself to think of in years.

"Kay would be the one accompanying me on hunting trips. He would always be at my side whenever visiting other kingdoms. Those times where I needed to get away, he would be the one riding with me." Arthur spares a look over at Merlin, as if examining him. "He treated me like an equal, and I did the same."

Arthur's head finally drops, his arms crossing over his knees as they slowly pull up to his body.

"But there was always something… there," he explains carefully. "Neither of us would talk about it, and dismissed any feeling, but there wasn't just friendship. One night, we were returning from a ride. It was late, and we stopped to let the horses drink, and I…"

He stops.

Arthur's teeth drag to his dried lower lip. Flashes of weapons clattering to the ground, the feel of tree bark pressing firmly to Arthur's back. Lips, hot and clumsy, exploring for the first time. None of the memories hold the luster they once did, but they are there all the same.

"After that night, nothing truly changed. But it didn't stop, either."

*

Interruption isn't unwanted. Above everything, it's needed.

This is a conversation Arthur needed to have, it seems. With Merlin.

With _anyone_.

There are still deeds Arthur buries so long and so deep that millenniums of digging possibly wouldn't unearth. Passings of history, of before Merlin's arrival to Camelot. Arthur _did_ have a life before him. Maybe fragments of it can gleam under scoping light, tease him with the knowledge Merlin can not understand completely.

Bits and pieces, those fragments, are coming together in Arthur's head, though the warlock hasn't the faintest on what to expect.

Merlin listens to a low sigh, watched patiently as Arthur shifts away to support his back to the couch-end, face still achingly open.

And yet, the hovering silence is still there. Merlin takes a moment to join him sitting up, legs crossing, hands falling into his lap.

He would wait.

(After all, what was a little more waiting?)

When Arthur does speak, it rings of heaviness. He speaks of his knightship, of earlier years. Obviously before Merlin. And then a name.

 _Sir Kay_.

At this, Merlin's frown transforms into thinly veiled bewilderment.

That is _strange_. Being Arthur's manservant, a regular attendant to tourneys and matches, and overlooking the rigorous training with the knights.… as often as Merlin heard discussion amongst Uther's knights and Arthur's as well, in and out of the field and armoury… that name.

He never heard that name. From anyone's lips.

To be a knight was to be _honoured_. Many of Camelot's servants, especially ones of the royal household, had the names and faces of every knight memorised, dead or alive.

And the way Arthur reminisces on him, bringing the tiniest of joys to his expression… how _important_ he seems…

 _Why_ had Merlin never heard of a Sir Kay?

He lets the question linger on the tip of his tongue, but unexpressed. Arthur's eyes finally peer over to Merlin, and he tightens his shoulders.

This man… is very important. And Merlin gets a frustrating and puzzling sensation of… no, it can't be _jealousy_. Flaming towards the center of Merlin's chest, warming his exposed skin. He rubs at the back of his neck, Arthur's words like droning insects.

It's ridiculous. Merlin doesn't feel like a _placekeeper_ for this man. He is his own, his own version of a friend to Arthur. Likely even more.

Arthur trails off about a night… a night Merlin assumes had been special to him. But not enough information. It may have been their first kiss, the way Arthur's voice sounds, like he is very faintly cherishing the memory.

Maybe they had been draped in the shadows of the woods and moonlight, draped in the richly colored wool of knight-cloaks… maybe they had been draped in _each other_.

What kind of world had that been? What world did they share?

Had Arthur's heart rabbited against a stray hand; had he groaned out his lust to this man's lips? Sir Kay must have been handsome, built strong, perhaps strong enough to lift Arthur, to hold him dearly against him… did Arthur feel _safe_ with him? Was Sir Kay gentle when they—

Anger, aimed towards no one but himself, flares in Merlin's skull.

He shakes his head a little, face twisting up and lips thinning. It's useless to dwell on something that may or may not have been. If Arthur wishes to speak of it, he will. There will be no forcing it.

Once he feels more collected, Merlin looks up, frown replacing with a wry smirk.

"You… had intentions to seek him out for more than friendship after that," he clarifies, eyes not lowering. "It must have been a relief to find someone you felt yourself with."

*

Everything about Arthur is tense and he knows it. His body coiled, the muscles in his shoulders picking up the tension that the last moments of peace eased away.

He's telling this to Merlin. Merlin, who does not yet understand the gravity of what Arthur tries to convey. Merlin bared so much of _himself_ , letting Arthur see the struggle and the insight through his years.

"It's a relief to know I wasn't the only one feeling it." he adds to Merlin's observation. Arthur briefly reminds himself that he will need to explain more, and pushes through the sense of discomfort. "After the kiss in the woods, we returned to the citadel and didn't speak of it. Not until a few days later."

If furthering _passion_ counted as talking.

Reluctance towards this subject comes off Arthur in waves, the emotion like a blazing heat that swelters in the room, making the air stifling. And Merlin can easily feel it.

He feels esteemed to be hearing this. Even if it opens a wound that Merlin is sure Arthur spent time closing.

—oh.

A kiss. It was a _kiss_.

If it wouldn't have looked like Merlin was possessed suddenly by madness, and thus interrupting Arthur's recollection, he might have smacked a palm against his forehead (for being a complete _idiot_ , his inner-Arthur hisses out).

Arthur shifts, his belly tensing nervously as he thinks through how to phrase what he needs.

"Besides a few potential matches my father tried to set for me, I had never…" He clears his throat. If the air had been any less solemn, he's sure Merlin would drag out what he wanted to say. "I had never _courted_ anyone, not really. I wouldn't call what we had courting… but it was certainly a first with a man."

Merlin's hands tenses in his lap.

He fights down a eyebrow-raise at the mention of Arthur's lack of courting. Well, as Merlin had seen it, Arthur did not necessarily have _time_. It had either been prior arrangements to suitors or a princess like Mithian or Elena. The woman Arthur chose to (in secret) court had been Gwen.

It doesn't mean Arthur was _unnoticed_.

Merlin lost count of how many compliments he had heard from the maid-servants gossiping about the "fair prince" or even from a handful of knights-in-training. The innuendos were, by far, the worst. More specifically, the innuendos throw at _Merlin_. About Arthur. About _serving_ the prince or warming the royal bed.

They were harmless, seeing as they were not pursued after a wordless eye-roll from him or a snide, defusing remark. Merlin _did_ regret letting them somehow reach the ears of a howling Gwaine.

Courting between men, naturally, had been unheard of to their era. Anything to do with those relationships were done in whispered, leering rumours and those who witnessed often turned the other cheek. Bad enough to have an ounce of truth between a someone of lower station and a someone of noble blood, but between fellow knights?

 _Had_ Arthur wanted to court Sir Kay?

"We were friends … we were brothers-in-arms, first and foremost, and we made sure it remained that way to others. But less and less when we found ourselves alone. At night, or I made excuses to go out in the woods."

Arthur has plenty of memories of those times. Laughing, sparring, hushed whispers when the sounds of a kitchen girl passing by Arthur's door. Now he can't help but wonder if one of those times it had been _Guinevere_. Lips, her hurried hands and clumsy movements and an overwhelming, affectionate warmth.

But it also reminds him of earlier this very morning, with his back to the wall and Merlin pressing in close and warm. But those memories hold better emotions, of a time before the storm. Kay's are faded and tinged with sadness.

Their friendship, as Arthur expresses it, was the most important aspect to him. Something forged of trust and understanding. It's not completely obscure from Arthur's other relationships, with his knights during his reign as King, or even with Merlin himself.

The flame in Merlin's chest does not build higher, but merely simmers.

"We were both curious and eager. Kay was a more experienced and as he did with my training, he taught me too.'

"Our friendship was _stronger_ than ever, and it did us both good. To let off steam, and to… get away." That's not all it was, Arthur knows that plenty well enough. Kay gave him the comfort of a relationship he never _knew_. He took the stress of Arthur's position away with a press of his hands and a touch of their lips. "We were good for one another."

Then, Arthur halts, lost in his thoughts once more.

His chest rises as he inhales, steadying himself for what he knows comes next.

"But, after months of keeping it from everyone, we grew reckless." _Arthur_ grew reckless. "I thought we were safe. We had been careful, but now it was like an art. We knew where to go, where we wouldn't be heard. But we hadn't factored in battle."

That can mean only one thing, Merlin realises.

Arthur got caught.

 _They_ got caught.

Arthur himself may have not noticed as he spoke, but his hands begin to tremble. Merlin considers moving, scooting over beside him and holding them until they qui. But he isn't sure what sort of reaction that may have _forced_ out of Arthur.

"There was a small regiment from the kingdom Gwynned. They came into our land from the north. Camelot had been at odds with them for some time before Annis, and when word came about an invasion, my father ordered his knights to take care of the problem. I was sent along to lead."

Arthur's lips press together, his right hand clenching his left wrist. A mark forms from the hard pressure of his crest's ring against his knuckle, going unnoticed.

"The ride into the borders was the last I saw of Kay until the very end. It was chaos, Merlin; men everywhere, the fighting on all sides with us all stuck in the forest. I had caught a glimpse of Kay being knocked off his horse, and in that moment… I panicked." Arthur shakes his head. "I couldn't see him anymore. There were too many and I thought in that moment that I lost him. It was a miracle I managed to pull myself back into the fight."

"We won and Caerleon's knights retreated as we regrouped. And there he was, battered and his armour dented, but alive." Arthur gives a quiet, strained chuckle. "It was all I could do to keep myself in check. The whole way back I rode too close, insisted on tending his injuries until Kay snapped at me to stop. He was incredibly stubborn, and a horrible mix of you and Gwaine."

Arthur didn't mean to compare, not speak of it, and he pushes on. "When Kay returned, there was a feast to celebrate the victory. We were there for the beginning, but once the festivities began we slipped out. No one would notice us gone."

"We _weren't_ careful. I couldn't wait. I wanted to make sure he was alright. He had spent the hours before in with Gaius." Arthur had so much pent-up inside him along with the adrenaline. He hadn't been able to control himself then. "We were hidden down in the cellar, Kay against the wall and my tunic in his hands when the door opened."

Arthur's breathing quickens, as the next words are difficult to piece together.

And Merlin remains sitting where he is, knuckling his trousers until the white appears to his hands, jaw tightened.

"It was one of my father's knights. He was gone before we could say anything." The gravity of the situation set in back then, as they scrambled to put themselves back together. "We stayed apart for the rest of the night."

Arthur feels his heart pounding harder, his body rigid like a stone as his shoulders bent with the weight of the memories. Arthur makes a noise, the start of a sentence, but instead a sharp, breathy noise leaves him. He quickly clenches his teeth down, running a hand over his mouth.

"My father ordered the servants to leave in the morning. The moment the doors shut behind them… I knew." Arthur confesses, "He was quiet for so long. I almost wondered if he was waiting for me to speak first. Then finally, he stood and said to me: 'Have you forgotten yourself and your responsibilities? You have to learn to be our ruler. You can't. be. reckless." Arthur's voice sharpens as he mimics it, Uther's anger as cold and brittle as the memory itself. "I trusted you to be an example for your kingdom. I was wrong.'"

Arthur ducks his head, lips twitching bitterly.

"I was sure anyone lingering outside could hear him when he raised his voice but my father didn't. He was quiet. It was worse that way, I think."

Uther.

Of course it came back to _Uther_.

He treated Arthur ill, with bigotry and unfairness, making his son feel an inch tall when in reality Uther was no more of a _man_ and a king than an insect.

Merlin swears to himself. _Damn_ him.

"He told me Caerleon was sending another troop in, and that his army was going to meet them." Arthur's voice was stoic. "Sir Kay was to be in the front, leading them into battle along with Sir Garavain. They were leaving as we spoke.'

"He sent Kay with the man who had caught us. I knew what that meant. It was a punishment, a warning. It was last I saw of him until his pyre ceremony when they brought his body back."

The righteous anger permeating his bones, all through Merlin, roars.

Merlin's jaw does not let up from tightening, as Arthur's voice wavers, as he acknowledges Sir Kay's death. A death that shouldn't have been _orchestrated_.

Merlin's hand lifts slowly, his fingertips dragging down his face to wipe away several, fresh tears as he manages to break his gaze from Arthur's profile, looking down and swallowing.

"That was cruel. Neither of you deserved that," Merlin says, his voice leveled.

"As prosperous as Camelot was, I know that we lived in an archaic time where… people were put to death for very little reasoning. Or could be held accountable for trying to be with the 'wrong' person." There had been nothing _wrong_ with Arthur.

"You don't need to say it, you know," Merlin whispers. "I know you well enough. Arthur, you did not _kill_ that man. You did not send him away. You did _nothing_ worth the emotions you're feeling right now, do you understand?"

He longs to move, to untangle his legs and kneel to him, curl his hands to Arthur's shoulders. Make him look him in the eye.

"Loving someone will never be a sign of weakness, no matter who you are."

*

Out of all the memories Arthur has of Sir Kay, his very last is his most _vivid_.

No real body had been returned to Camelot; the battle took place too far, the damage too extensive. Kay was one of the first to enter the fray. There was no returning from that.

What he remembered most was the _rage_ as Arthur watched the fire engulf the swords and capes of the valiant knights that lost their lives, and seeing Kay's lying on the ground in front, facing the castle. It was not worthy of a knight's funeral, according to the man standing to the right of his father.

Sir Garavain spread rumours, claiming the reason of Kay's shaming was that he had run from battle. The fear of being slain, and being so young, had struck Kay. He had turned and ran, leaving his men behind.

The mere thought of a knight doing such was completely _sinful_.

It was anything but the _truth_ , but no one would dare question it. Not to Sir Garavain, and certainly not to Arthur.

The worst part was having to _pretend_ as if he knew no different.

Arthur _knew_ it was a lie. A horrible claim for someone as valiant as Kay. He had grown up with this man, fought beside and against him countless times. Kay would never _run_ from a battle and leave others to die instead of him.

Still, the fire grew higher as the pyre came apart, but Arthur's eyes were on the ground.

Uther was stiff next to him, and Arthur felt as if there was a wall of stone between them. He could also feel Morgana's hand gently against his lower back, but thinking about the comfort she offered made his stomach knot.

It all felt like a trap. There was _nothing_ Arthur could do but stare ahead and finish the ceremony, as if the disgraced sword did not make him feel like the fire itself.

Merlin's voice is like a shock to him, pulling Arthur out of the darkness and back into the warm room.

His body feels colder than it had minutes before. Arthur listens numbly at first, eyes on the firelight in front of him. Then Merlin insists that he knows how much blame Arthur put on himself.

He's _right_.

Arthur does not interrupt, does not try to stop him. But it _was_ his fault.

He was the one who could not take normal precaution, did not remember his status. Arthur had gone over every scenario that could have changed the outcome more than once, and every time it all led down to the same.

Still, everything Merlin says forms together. It hits in a way that Arthur didn't expect it to.

"I was not in love with him," Arthur finds himself saying, his voice low. He doesn't tear himself from Merlin's glance, finding that _seeing_ Merlin right next to him made this easier. He needs Merlin to know, to understand what else needs to be said. "But he meant enough to me to grieve in private when I was allowed."

Once the rubble was taken away, Kay's sword with it, Arthur remembered turning without a word and returning to his chambers. He didn't trust himself to be around anyone. But when he shut the doors behind him, there had been something waiting for Arthur on his bed. Kay's tattered red cape was folded tightly, the golden emblem shining up at him.

To this day, Arthur had no idea of who had left it. But having a final reminder of Kay had been enough to break him down, to feel a sense of _himself_.

"After that… it all changed. My father didn't trust me, not like he once did. I had to prove myself. I trained more, took the lead on quests as my father commanded. Leon became my man, the one that rode with me instead. It took a long time, but finally, I was in my father's favour again," Arthur says. "I served him well. I met with leaders and paid no attention to anyone but the women my father wanted me to think about, and I had shown that I was worthy of being the prince that Camelot needed."

He watches Merlin carefully, Arthur's eyes tracing his face. "And then _you_ came along and saved my life, and everything changed _again_."

 _Merlin_.

Merlin turned everything Arthur had been trying to do upside down the moment they were paired.

"You were infuriating. You didn't understand a damn thing about the job. You were clumsy, and your mouth never seemed to stop _moving_. I thought I'd have to suffer through it until I could finally sent for a different servant." Arthur's lips quirk faintly. "But then, despite all of that, I started to like you a little."

"You always spoke your mind even if it wasn't your place. I found myself looking for your opinion and agreeing with what you said more than my father. And that was my first mistake."

He still remembers the silence after one particular argument with Uther, the king's eyes boring down upon him in suspision. Arthur had been careful not to speak of the source of his opinion, or the change in his views, but Uther was not deterred.

_"And your serving boy, he has no influence on this matter?"_

Arthur had stood there then, his heart racing before he faked a near offended look. _"Merlin's an idiot who can barely polish a sword. This is my decision."_

"I remembered Kay and what my decisions caused. And I couldn't let that happen to you, Merlin. I couldn't lose you the same way I lost him. I had to keep my distance where I could, if not for your safety, then for my _sanity_. I regret now treating you the way I did," Arthur says, breathing out. "My father praised your loyalty because he thought you were nothing more than a simpleton. Every time he looked down on you, I…"

Arthur wanted to defend Merlin to whoever dared to insult him, but he always forced himself to restrain the urge. Sometimes even _agreeing_ with them.

"Finally, I even had myself convinced that you were some bumbling idiot. Until the _real_ you slipped through and I knew that wasn't true. You were the bravest man I had even known. Sometimes I couldn't stand how much you put at risk for me, and those were moments where I absolutely _loathed_ how I treated you. But I felt I had to, and it stuck. If it hadn't… I'm not sure what would have become of you."

Arthur turns so he could fully look at the other man. His blue eyes are wide, open with sincerity.

"I am telling you this because I need you to _understand_. I do not hold onto the memory of Kay when I am with you. I was terrified of what my father could do to you, and even gone, it was difficult to forget what I told myself for all those years. Guinevere was… an exception to the rule, a way to tell myself that I was somewhat free to find my own love."

Words tumble out of Arthur's mouth. Such a simple statement from Merlin, casual in its entirety, caused such a landslide from Arthur that he knew it would just be easier to let it out. Merlin promised to bear it all, and while Arthur realises _this_ has been bottled up for so long, he had not expected to return the favour. Especially about all this.

The past is further away than ever before, and in this moment Arthur feels it entirely.

He feels the distance of time and the years put between them. Or specifically, the years these confessions had to wait. Arthur never harboured the hopeful thought of there actually being a time where he would allow himself to say such things.

But he's here in this moment, beside Merlin fifteen hundred years after his death. Now very much alive. And very much out in the _open_ , Arthur's heart on his sleeve.

That is not something Arthur is entirely used to. He's opened up to Merlin times before, shown compassion, made it known how much friendship meant to him. But never like _this_.

He was coming clean about his reasoning, and the fact that Arthur had regrets.

Despite all that, Arthur feels… _light_.

*

So much is happening behind Arthur's pale blue eyes, so much more than what he is allowing himself to voice.

Stories of his memories interlaced, drumming and thrumming in his veins, resounding with spent pain. Perhaps, Merlin isn't meant to hear them. He promised Arthur that he would share all, but the warlock does not expect to hear _all_ in return.

He could only _imagine_ what it had have been like.

Of the funeral pyres Merlin watched, they were of dear friends to him, but not of such horrific circumstances. Not the kind Arthur witnessed.

Did each knight get a separate burning or were they all together? Was Sir Kay burned without his ceremonial sword or his vestiges of honour? What had others thought of this sudden tragedy? And had Arthur been _present_ to watch Sir Kay's corpse go up?

Merlin wouldn't have put it past Uther, backhandedly forcing Arthur to attend the funeral for the deceased knights as a sign of _respect_ to them.

No, it was to gloat, to watch his son grieve and feel unabashed satisfaction in _a lesson learned the hard way_.

If there was ever such vileness concentrated in a body… Uther Pendragon harboured it.

This man… this knight of Camelot… experienced a wrongful death. Carried out by his own king, by orders to fight in dangerous lands, and with the knowledge that he would assuredly not return alive. And it left Arthur with a broken heart—a lost friendship and… likely, a _lost love_ back in their time—and Merlin only spoke in honesty. Though it seemed harsh in a way, striking a personal chord with Arthur and he barely was able to restrain a facial twitch about the subject of _blame_.

It _wasn't_ Arthur's fault, regardless if Arthur himself believed it. But Merlin thought he needed to hear those words repeated back to him.

A little good comes out of it when Arthur's shoulders loosen their tension.

Merlin's hands move to his knees, grasping there, and he doesn't so much as blink at the confession. That Arthur had not _loved_ Sir Kay.

It wouldn't have mattered enough to change an opinion on Arthur.

Nothing on Arthur could change Merlin's thoughts— Arthur was a stinkin' cabbagehead and would always will be. He was one of the most beautifully _human_ creatures, full of kindness and strength, that Merlin had ever known during two-thousand years of living.

He was the other side to Merlin's coin, his heart's content and his closest friend, and Merlin would not, _could not_ , separate himself from those beliefs.

The urge to move again, to feed off Arthur's warmth, rises stubbornly.

Arthur had been mentally abused and physically by his father, brainwashed to the point of needing reassurances that Uther held him in his favour. That he would not disown him. That he would be the "perfect" son, doing exactly as he was told, without complaint, without question. It was sickening to discover that Arthur could easily acknowledge this.

_"And then you came along and saved my life at a feast, and everything changed again."_

Merlin? _Him_? What about him?

He thought he annoyed Arthur for the first several years of knowing him. And, apparently from Arthur's perspective, this was rightfully so—(Merlin held his tongue about "understanding a damn thing about the job" when, _really_ , he had been from the country… how was Merlin supposed to know every skill required for a manservant?).

_"But then, I think I started to like you a little."_

It isn't the pause before that takes Merlin off-guard. It's the soft certainty in those words. Merlin's chest blossoms in heat, no longer a jealous, simmering fire but like a lantern's flickering glow.

Arthur had been _afraid_. For Merlin. He put distance between his emotions and his duty. To see Uther leave him be, leave _them_ be.

Merlin never cared much for how others thought of him, being not very shy and being highly opinionated, but he had cared for the realistic possibility of leaving Camelot. Being thrust from Arthur's side. He never wanted to spoil his position, and often played the fool. Pretended to be dimwitted and unknowing, a tavern drunk or absentminded.

It did hurt him, not earning the courtesy he thought he deserved, especially from Arthur when Merlin had saved his life and kingdom countless times, but it was _better_. Arthur could not know the secret of his magic too early. Or Merlin's own fears would have been summoned to life.

He had no idea that Arthur shared in the same fear. Of Merlin _leaving_.

Dimwitted, tavern drunk Merlin, who Arthur had just called "brave" and professed to all these admiring characteristics. Merlin's head begins to spin floaty, his mind trying to muddle through the fact that it's _more than friendship_ in Arthur's eyes, years ago.

 _Years_ ago. Not days.

Merlin's hands shake.

He doesn't look away from Arthur either, paralyzed in his spot, as the blond man faces him, eyes big and expressive. _Wanting_ Merlin to see him like this.

This… vulnerable, familiar look.

It had been a frighteningly open look on Arthur's face when he first laid his eyes on his mother, because of Morgause's powerful enchantment. It… _what is_ Merlin supposed to be doing? Saying? Nodding at Arthur wordlessly, understandingly? Asking him if he's taking the mick at him? Confessing his heartfelt feelings back?

_"I'm telling you this because I need you to understand."_

It's important to hear that Arthur is not comparing him to anyone else. It is, but Arthur wishing things had been _different_? What does that possibly mean?

Merlin's eyebrows lower, his forehead wrinkling in musing.

"I don't," he admits to the other man across from him, murmuring. A serious light in Merlin's eyes. "… I don't think I would have changed anything."

"Arthur, you are the person you are because you realized on your own who you wanted to be. You felt resentment towards Uther because he treated you unfairly on more than one account, and because you thought he did to me as well." Merlin's voice carries strong, firm but yet without jarring the air. "You learned who _not_ to be. You fell in love with Gwen because it was _meant_ to be."

Those words hover and settle in.

If things had changed, Arthur would not have been the ruler he was. His mind would have been further clouded. He would have missed the love he shared with Guinevere, and in the process, leaving his kingdom without its queen.

There had been a reason to it all, even if the nights of longing, pain, and regret hurt.

"I am glad my devotion for you had been acknowledged, I am. As for what you told me…" Merlin's lips bite in. He lowers his head, combing a hand through his dark locks.

Arthur's lips twitch faintly, his eyes softening with understanding.

But then Merlin has trailed off. Arthur is suddenly hit with a revelation of embarrassment. He just fully admitted to being interested in Merlin for years, and as prepared as he is for a reaction, he feels like a wide-eyed fool waiting to hear what Merlin has to say.

"Y'know, I used to imagine us," Merlin whispers, gazing back up. "An 'us' that wasn't confined to what nobility thought, where you would realize all that I had done for you. You accepted my magic." The next breath out shudders, eyes crinkling in a broadening, grimacing smile. Skin flushing. "I was terrified of becoming real. I was _terrified_ about if I had been wrong. If you ever knew. That I wanted the feel of you, all of you, your hands, your mouth on mine. Your heart open. I—"

A soft, restrained noise against his lips, eerily like distress.

Merlin's right hand goes for his neck, wrapping his fingers there as he pushes back a surge of panic, eyes closing. _Too much_. Far too much emotion.

He opens them after a long breath, ignoring the concerned expression on Arthur. His hand still gripping, fingertips to the sleek material of his turtleneck. "I wanted things I couldn't have, and I accepted it, because you were happy. And that's all I _needed_."

It is by no means a romanticised notion, not completely.

But yet it is, Arthur thinks. Merlin imagined them with a hope of what they could be, very much like Arthur had, but with a deeper secret laced in.

Deeper than any Arthur knew then— _His magic_.

"You don't have to imagine anymore," Arthur murmurs, simple as that. No more wishful dreams and longing, no more hiding deep into the part of the mind that only came out before rest. "You don't have to want anymore with me, Merlin. There's not a single reason for you to be afraid. Not now."

The mildly incredulous look doesn't slow Merlin's thoughts down.

He really wouldn't have changed their past, their experiences and the lessons they learned— _the hard way_. Everything was connected, every little strand tied to history. To sever one was to bring down all.

He understood now time was delicately constructed, like thick, bright ribbons weaved together.

They weren't meant to be unknotted. In his stubborn youth, Merlin might have challenged that— _had_ challenged prophecy in such a way—but it was desperately futile.

Even then, in the sorrowful pits of his heart, he knew.

But had refused to believed.

To the dying firelight, he sees the quiet loveliness of Arthur's expression, how the soft skin to his mouth creases.

The heaviness of Merlin's hand wrapped to his neck becomes noticeable, and Merlin drops it, shamed for a moment by the instinct. Uncomfortably aware of the hot-prickle sensitivity.

Arthur's words help loosen the phantom strangling. The fearlessness.

_"There's not a single reason for you to be afraid. Not now."_

_"You don't have to want anymore with me, Merlin."_

Merlin's heart thuds loudly in his ears.

"I'll always want," he argues, voice hoarse but gentle, low. (Wanting, selfishly, _cruelly_ , is what's left of me that's human, he thinks to himself.)

His own chuckle, more humouring and contemplative than Arthur's shudder-laugh, brightens his face. Merlin says, the teasing nature to it unmistakable, "Sometimes I wonder why it's a royal arse like you… but I feel it." Merlin's knees adjust, scooting him within easy arms-length to the other man. "What connects us. Only us."

Dark blue eyes good-natured and eager, drinking in the sight of him. Merlin's hand presses into Arthur's space, right against his chest, flattening his palm over his heart. Feeling his magic syncing in its rhythm.

Merlin's eyes flits down to his hand, where the spread of Arthur's warmth crawls up him.

"Can't you?" he asks, no more than a whisper, toothy smile growing in awe.

He misses any further reaction after a while, busy tangling his fingers into the fiber-thick sturdiness of Arthur's jumper, dragging him closer. At the same time, Merlin presses against him and the couch-end in a half-clumsy attempt of an embrace. Others may have called it cuddling. It's hard to cuddle with limbs awkwardly poking limbs.

Merlin calls it a success when avoiding a stray elbow to the windpipe.

What does it mean to be _alive_?

I isn't the capacity of feeling pain, or anger. A threshold of emotion. A lifetime of accomplishments and stories. To be worshipped, or hated, or not believed in. It doesn't mean just a _pulse_ to Merlin.

Arthur's own thuds quietly in his hearing, like the sweetest song.

Drowsiness creeps around him, through him, lidding his eyes. Merlin lifts one of his hands, cradling it against the side of Arthur's face. Feeling where tiny, rough hairs prickled where a cheekbone is stroked lightly under the flesh-soft pad of Merlin's thumb.

*

 


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW, APRIL CAME FAST. It's still snowing/freezing where I am. And I got a new job! Hoping it works out! :) I hope everyone's doing awesome and that you enjoyed a little bit more mellow of a chapter. Story is moving along a bit more, and we get to other things as more chapters come. Any comments/thoughts appreciated! ♥♥ ALSO GUYS. WE HIT OVER 20,000 VIEWS AND OVER 800 KUDOS AND OVER 200 BOOKMARKS. THIS IS AMAZING. WOW. THANK YOU.
> 
> Half of this fic wouldn't exist without [marlena_darling](http://archiveofourown.org/users/marlena_darling/pseuds/marlena_darling) and I wanna say thank you for taking this journey with me and you've been a best friend to me. I love you lots and this is ours.

*

Arthur remembered in the hours prior to his death, and in a certain amount after it, mulling over the revelation of Merlin's magic.

Companions for _years_ , the person Arthur held closest in his circle of trust… it threatened to shatter in the last moments of his life because of the long hidden _secret_. It could have. At first, part of his mind told him it should have. Arthur refused to listen.

Despite the lies and treason, there had never been a moment where Arthur _truly_ doubted Merlin's loyalty.

When Merlin first shown him a dragon formed of burning embers, Arthur had been stunned silent. He felt betrayed, yes, but not as if Merlin hadn't been on his side. It was because a _friend_ had been hiding himself since the very _start_ , and Arthur was just now seeing the real man. Merlin made it so explicitly clear: he only used it for him. For Arthur. For Camelot. Even if it didn't show at first, he believed it. Arthur _believed_ him.

The attributes that Arthur believed Merlin had were different than the other sorcerers he had come across in his time. Those qualities had been tested, and Arthur watched them bend until they finally snapped. But it was nothing that could not be _mended_.

Time had been the cause of all of this.

Time and loneliness wears at Merlin until the optimism and _hope_ associated with him replaces with pain and bitterness.

Arthur know it's still there, somewhere. He can see it now in the eyes across from him, in Merlin's features. There's _hope_ in bringing the pieces of Merlijn back together, and in the process… perhaps Arthur could find stable ground again too.

All he knows is that as the words finally leave his mouth, Arthur feels the strong assurance. It came whenever he made a promise to his people that he intended on keeping. He never wants Merlin to fear the use of his magic, or to withhold it. But Arthur needs him to _remember_ where the line between power and chaos laid.

He watches as the tense hand grasping at Merlin's neck falls away.

Merlin sounds so much like _himself_ when he speaks it's relieving, so much so that Arthur doesn't hold back a laugh when Merlin teases him. He will take the insult, this once.

He kept Merlin at an arm's distance for so long. Merlin is the one to move in first; his hand splaying out on Arthur's chest. Heat floods into Arthur's body through his fingers and his words. Arthur never takes his eyes off of him, savouring the grinning, wide-eyed expression on the other man's face. Arthur's heartbeat is steady, quickened by the proximity, but all the while beating in answer.

 _Yes._ He can feel it.

Before Arthur has the chance to answer him, Merlin pulls them both in, each man moving in a way that Arthur deems less than graceful. No one receives a hit on the face or a jarring in the ribs, which is nice enough on its own.

"I certainly feel something," Arthur says in dry, mock irritation.

His arms circle Merlin, supporting him as he adjusts. Arthur soon realises the upright position won't work. He gives up, dragging Merlin down with him. "… Is holding onto you always going to be this much of a problem?"

"You wouldn't like it if I made it easy," Merlin whispers. He makes a low, amused snort of breath, letting it hit Arthur's jaw.

Well, Merlin isn't _completely_ wrong.

"Nothing is _ever_ easy with you." Arthur grumbles, the corners of his lips becoming into a faint smile.

Everything else _heavier_ when the world gently tilts sideways, as Merlin's head sets down on the warm space of chest below him.

The anger from earlier fades. The numb, hollow sensation pushing away with a budding warmth, from the person against him. No timeworn memories linger in his head and wear away at his resolve. It's just the feel of skin against his own, and Merlin's head tucking against his chest.

Perhaps, Arthur thinks drowsily… he can get used to this.

*

He loses track of it. Time.

Merlin wakes the following morning, just as cozy and warm as he remembers before their conversations waned into relaxed silence. Head still resting, falling and rising in the same nature of Arthur's chest. Tucked to Arthur's loosened embrace, a largely-muscled hand burrowed under Merlin's shirt, lying flat to his back.

With lips perking, and allowing his mind to blank out, he utters little more than a sigh. Merlin tightens his own winding embrace around the other man's torso. Slipping his hands underneath Arthur.

This is _horribly_ affectionate, especially for them—but, bugger that, Merlin already decides he isn't over-thinking. At least for the next half an hour, maybe drifting off again. Or until Arthur wakes up, complaining about Merlin's weight on his stomach or legs or some rubbish.

As much as Merlin would like to nod off again, it isn't happening. The waking world has a firm grip to him.

Not that he feels like complaining _right_ then.

Merlin adjusts the position of his cheek pressing down, rubbing over the material of Arthur's jumper, before resting his forehead instead to the other man's sternum. He stifles a loud yawn into Arthur's jumper.

His king isn't, by far, the most satisfactory mattress-replacement.

Muscles and hard lines under layers of fabric, pressing back against the soft, sensitive places on Merlin's body, along with the matter that he breathes noisily.

A memory sparks up, dull in colour.

( _Not supposed to be thinking._ )

He and Arthur huddled together in a cave-formation, hiding from bandits and mercenaries, on their way to Ismere to recklessly save the knights. Huddled up for warmth on the cold, dirt ground, both welcoming and fighting off the siren calls of falling asleep.

_"Merlin," Arthur groaned out in the dark, ripples of his cranky voice drifting into the warlock's hearing. "You're breathing."_

_An equally cranky, sleepy noise. "S'rry," Merlin mumbled out._

The chest beneath him shudders in, shudders out.

Snapping back to the present moment, Merlin glances up frowning, and then at the face of the sleeping man. Arthur's throat spasms violently, as if holding back words to be acknowledged, or screams.

Eyelids trembling, eyes rolling behind them. Arthur fights for control within his own sleeping world, nostrils flaring, colour rising. A faint line of perspiration to his brow.

Merlin's fingers ache, still trapped.

*

Arthur doesn't know _where_ he is.

The crackling of fire louder and louder.

It's dark, but the orange glow pierces through. Smoke billows from the tips of the flames as they rise to the sky. No longer is Arthur surrounded by ease and comfort; now the world is pitch-shadows. There are men's voices echoing around him on all sides, the metallic clash of swords and howling filling his ears.

The heat of the flames scorch down the back of his neck. Arthur's eyes search wildly, his body turning. There is _something_ he has to do.

Something is _wrong_.

A blood-curdling scream pierces the air. It's high and loud, but as if far, far away, deep underground.

Arthur witnesses right in front of him, as his own, glinting sword runs Morgana through. Her green eyes glimmering, the dark, yellow-bronzed flash of her eyes dimming as pain filters in. The defeat contorting the shape of her mouth. Arthur is helpless, as his half-sister collapses to the ground, weak as the days she woke up from her own terrors.

He feels the words building in his throat, a yell into already violently-charged air.

Holding the hilt of Excalibur's blade is a pale hand, clenching tight is _Merlin_.

His own eyes ablaze with the same fierceness Arthur felt coursing through the air the moment he was sent flying into the parlour's settee. This is a _different_ man. The one standing on the other side of the door. That cannot be Merlin.

Arthur's plea to stop becomes a choked noise leaving him as his lungs struggle for air. It's like he's moving through sand; his body lurches forward, slowly, agonizingly so. The space between he and Merlin lengthens further and further.

And then, a pair of cold eyes meet his. The face, unmoving and calculating, barren of any real emotion.

 _Mordred_.

The name emerges Arthur's lips, or he knows it should, because at that moment Arthur knows what will to happen. What he has to stop. Arthur reaches for his sword, narrowly missing the first swing, but his hand grasps at empty air.

 _Nothing_ , it wasn't there; Merlin—

The ripping pain thrusts in Arthur's side, the drag of cold, thick steel blood-warm as it forces its way into his skin.

_A low, bitter laugh in his ear._

_Arthur cries out, his arms weakening as a body weighs closer around him, forcing the blade to sink in_ —

—Light suddenly fills his eyes as they snap open.

A howling noise escapes him.

Arthur twists violently, body pushing against Mordred's, trying to get him off, to get the sword out of his own torso. His hands clench into Mordred's shoulders to hold him down, but when Arthur focuses on the person below…

It's not Mordred's face.

The room is silent, even with Arthur's heart rapidly beating in his ears. He finds himself staring down at Merlin, looking drowsy and shocked all at once. Arthur stills himself, looking down as he registers what just happened.

*

"Arthur…?" Merlin says, keeping his voice low and in a whisper.

Dark blue eyes search him, not reassured by how Arthur's chest heaves more wildly in the passing seconds.

"Arthur?… _wake up_. Listen to me, you're—"

And just like that, it's done. The full-force of nightmarish remnants attacks, as Arthur follows in suit, pinning Merlin down onto the quilt. Head slamming back, graying out everything for several moments. Iron-strong hands slipping to grasp at Merlin's shoulders, fingers biting and scraping for purchase.

Experience and instinct from over a thousand years, against his enemies, against dangerous forces, rooted deep in Merlin begins to flare up. Like the hollow echo of warrior's gut reaction.

Without realizing it, Merlin _does_ react, thrusting an open hand between himself and Arthur, hovering in the empty space as if poised to strike.

His magic rears, tugs at him, urging him to land the blow, to not _think_ and to act. Horror filters through him. No.

 _No_.

Merlin gulps air, skull ringing, mouth slack. The unrestrained anger and the fear melt from Arthur's eyes, the intention to _harm_. It isn't Merlin he thought he had been seeing.

( _It wasn't_ … _wasn't it_ …)

Blond hairs to Arthur's head stick up, ruffled from sleep and bathed in the morning light filling up the parlour. Arthur's face crinkles up, ugly with realisation. Arthur's hands still holding down.

It's a _dream_.

"I'm sorry."

At the breathless apology, the tension stringing Merlin lightens, his magic calming. Merlin's fingers curl into themselves and his palm as that hand between them lowers carefully.

There's a strange, foggy clarity—the very same feeling washing over Arthur in a few moments.

His body is on the defense, ready to strike, but instead his mind slows.

Arthur's chest breathes irregularly as another shaky exhale comes out. He feels a little wild, especially when he meets the expression staring back up at him. Merlin's eyes bled with a flicker of gold then, and Arthur felt his stomach wrench.

The heat of a hand near his torso catches Arthur's attention, his stomach brushing against Merlin's fingers. _Merlin_ … was in position to fight back, despite Arthur holding him down.

"Do you know where you are?" Merlin asks him, signaling to be let go.

Arthur's throat is dry. They stare at each other for a short time as Arthur collects his bearings. and the warlock's voice is enough to make Arthur take the final steps.

"Yes," he answers in a murmur, shaking his head. Arthur forces himself back onto his haunches, leaning to get off of Merlin. He releases him, Arthur's fingers trembling. He pulls his hands back to his sides. One hand rises to scrub at his face, running over Arthur's eyes and down to cover his mouth.

"I thought I was still dreaming, for a moment."

Arthur drags his tongue over his lower lip before dropping his hand back down, heaving a short sigh. "I'm awake," he concludes.

He's _awake_. It was just a dream.

That phrase repeats over and over in Arthur's mind as his body slowly lurches to a start. He's dazed, his expression pinched and barely withholding his stupefaction. Arthur knew there was a good chance he could have hurt Merlin if he hadn't woken up when he did. That is not a possibility Arthur took lightly.

Merlin's eyes catch how sun-gold fingers quiver, receding, clenching at air helpless.

Arthur isn't himself right now. Barely awake.

A pinch of guilt jabs at him; a shame-hot brand on his chest. Merlin feels he should have _seen_ that before reacting, age sharp-instinct and once ruthless creed.

"S'alright," he murmurs back. Nightmares are no small matter. At least in Merlin's experience. Prophetic or seemingly ordinary. "You're awake. At least you know that. I just wanted to be sure."

This one must have taken a mental beating on him. The harsh colour to Arthur's face remains, along with the concentration of wrinkles.

"You're shaking," Merlin says, more clinical observation, like he's speaking with a patient more on the agitated side. He touches the inside of his wrist to Arthur's temple. Despite the sheen of perspiration and flush present, the skin pressing back against Merlin's own skin is exceedingly cool. His unvoiced worries double at this, still registering how uneven and ragged Arthur's breathing sounds.

The other's man voice is fuzzy in his ears when he first started speaking, his tone so quiet Arthur almost doesn't hear him. Arthur looks down at himself, brow furrowing as he stares at his hands. A wave of unsettling embarrassment washes over him.

Merlin pulls his hand back into his own personal space, lips tugging down faintly.

"I'm going to get us something to drink, Arthur," he says, getting up on his feet. "Do me a favour, will you? Keep yourself warm. Don't get up unless it's for the loo. Use the quilt, I'll be right back."

Arthur looks up at him, lips parted and ready to argue back, but instead he listens.

He grumbles, "Alright."

Arthur begrudgingly pulls one of the blankets around him. It's still warm from their bodies, and the comfort in that alone gave is fairly surprising. He keeps it tight around his shoulders, keeping a chill he wonders if only he's feeling out. Arthur's eyes slips shut, a long sigh through his nose as the back of his head tilts to the couch cushion.

 _Lovely_ way to wake them both up.

Even though it has only been a few minutes, the dream is already starting to fade from memory. But the _intensity_ is there all the same. He can still hear the scream. Arthur can still feel the stab of the sword. But now, he can't see Mordred's cold eyes.

He only sees _Merlin's_ face, wide and confused from underneath him. Arthur is beginning to think that's worse.

Meanwhile, the warlock heads into the kitchen, pulling open his herb cupboard and browsing his selection. Two cups of tea are prepared, water clean and hot. Something for the anxiety, something to lower Arthur's blood pressure and calm his rapid heart rate. Merlin senses its flutter inside Arthur's chest cavity without even holding onto him.

He plucks out a miniature vial or two from the cramped rows, looking over the taupe-colored labels.

It's _familiar_ , methodical. Falling into the role of the physician, caring for someone else dear to him.

There aren't very many of those left.

Ignoring the small twinge in his heart at the reminder, Merlin finishes mixing the tea and steps back out to the parlour, finding the room as cold as he left it with the unlit hearth but Arthur wrapped in the quilt.

He hands the other man his cup, answering the mild look, "It's chamomile. It'll help, promise." Merlin tries a bright, unassuming smile to add behind the verbalized reassurance, but it feels a bit stretched tight on his expression. "I put a few drops of motherwort for the anxiety, and lemon balm to chase off the bitter taste of the mint."

Arthur's eyes open when he hears quiet footsteps, instantly locking on Merlin as he's offered the cup. He shifts the blanket so he can grab it, all while staring at the other man as if waiting for an explanation as to what exactly he put in it.

At first, a part of him wouldn't have put _liquor_ past Merlin.

The expression that crosses Arthur's face at the word 'anxiety' is nothing sort of _frustration_ , as if just hearing the word leaves a bad taste in his mouth. But instead of chastising its use, Arthur presses the cup to his lips as Merlin goes towards the fireplace.

It's not _bad_.

Lighter than he's tasted, with a dryness that has the lemon sticking out more. The warmth of the drink blossoms in his chest, relieving some of its ache.

"Try small sips," Merlin advises, as Arthur tests for flavour, and likely potency. He glances at the dimmed fireplace and throws in new logs from the small stack nearby. Crouched down, Merlin reaches for the matches, striking one alight and holding it up to inspect.

Warmth strokes just out of reach, flicking and evading. A tiny flame. Not appearing that it cam do a world of damage. Then again, most things in existence are _underestimated_ of their capabilities.

Merlin nearly forgot he even had them. His magic usually knew how to keep the fireplaces going, not reducing them to smoke and cinders.

By the time Merlin realises he had been staring closely at it, eerily thoughtful, the match spends down the wick, burning his fingertips. He lets out a small hiss of breath, shaking them to himself. The next one tosses straight into the fireplace, where the damage belongs.

Thoughts seem to disentangle themselves, stirred to life from the new sense of warmth flooding the parlour, from the growing fire.

Merlin's fingertips throb to the pace of his heartbeat, the ones previously stung. He dips his middle and index finger in his mouth briefly, closing his lips, easing any remaining pain with dampness.

Arthur does keep it at small, slow drinks, but his eyes locked on Merlin. He knows Merlin's capable of lighting that without the daunting task of fires-starters. But _why_ isn't he? He continues to watch, skeptically, but Arthur reins in his questions. For now.

"I don't normally wake up like that, if it's any consolation."

Sleep manages to do little to heave off the shroud of tensed heaviness drifting over Merlin., making his muscles and head feel shrunken, making everything feel unsteady around him. Arthur clearly hasn't been sleeping well either. Whether or not it's to do with the result of yesterday's events remains to be seen, as of now.

He wouldn't fault Arthur for acting out violently, acting as he would in battle against a villainous foe. Whoever he was fighting with in his dreams, Arthur fought for his very _life_. Merlin can only imagine guesses to what horrors, what memories that entails.

But Merlin feels _guilt_ , for acting recklessly, instinctual. Even in defense.

Arthur is an innocent. He truly never meant harm to him.

He rises up from crouching, joining Arthur back on the floor and choosing to sit directly in front of him.

Merlin clasps his own hands loosely together in his lap, saliva-damp fingers touching to dry ones.

"When did you first starting having these?" Merlin's eyes glance over his king, the prying element softened. "You don't have to tell me what happens in them," he adds, nodding. "I'll understand if you don't."

Arthur's expression had been ill-tempered about the usage of 'anxiety'—while Merlin could have tried a more 'delicate' word, it isn't an incorrect diagnosis—so he wonders vaguely if the conversation would take a turn. Or would halt completely. Never could entirely tell. Arthur didn't like letting on that something was ever 'wrong' or bothering him.

It was _frustrating_ on Merlin's end, often during Camelot's years. But poking and prodding didn't always do the trick. Sometimes it led to warning growls under Arthur's breath or dismissive, hostile remarks. And, hopefully, those reactions would stay in those years.

Arthur wasn't… he _isn't_ the same person. (Obviously, after being trapped in Avalon for hundreds of years may change a man.)

But it isn't a bad thing. Arthur seemingly accepted Merlin's role with magic, what Merlin had done for their kingdom. He shoved Merlin a lot _less_ now. Less general spiteful horseplay. Less throwing objects.

More kissing. A lot more kissing. Which is good, _yes_.

There had never been a lot of kissing between them. Or… any, at all in the past.

Merlin spent _years_ attempting to change Arthur… his beliefs, his hostile views. Wishing for a glimpse of success. Wishing to see Arthur become the king he was meant to be and for magic to reign with no prejudice. But Arthur never wanted Merlin to change… his beliefs, his own nature.

Neither of them got what they wanted back then. Not truly.

A tight exhale sounds loudly from him.

 _Not now_.

The focus is Arthur right now.

*

After he says it, Arthur realises if there was anyone that understood what Arthur was like when he woke up, it would be Merlin.

He was the _unfortunate_ servant tasked with the job of getting him out of bed, and had been on the receiving end of many of Arthur's early morning moods.

It's not the same thing now. This is only the second night that they slept near _each_ other out of all the other nights since his return. Only twice has Merlin been there with him when he woke up, and apparently that only acted as a cure once. Arthur had nightmares before, of course. There was no way around that. But these are… vivid. More intense.

He hates every moment of it.

Pursing his lips tighter, Arthur doesn't respond at first.

He _doesn't_ have to talk about it, and as soon as Merlin makes that clear, Arthur decides that he won't. It's not that he doesn't trust Merlin with it. The man had been there in person after the event in his dreams happened. Merlin had been the _one_ to make Morgana fall.

Except not with that… _look_ on his face. Arthur has never seen Merlin like that. Even if the dream is stretched, foggy, and difficult to recall. Just the reminder of the stormy expression is enough for him to make up Arthur's mind. Merlin does not have to hear about that dream.

"Since my first night." Arthur answers truthfully. His voice low. "Sometimes they aren't as bad, or I don't remember them. Others are worse."

He feels strangely like a child, reliving his night terrors to a chambermaid that comes to his aid. Part of him wants to be embarrassed. It's just a _dream_ , and the more time goes by, Arthur finds it hard to believe that he thought otherwise. He wants to put it behind him, push past and be done with what he hopes would be the last of the incidents.

He _attacked_ Merlin, or at least came very close. If Merlin wants to discuss it a little further, then Arthur owes him that.

Arthur's been having them since the first night.

 _Every_ night?

 _Every_ night while Merlin in blissful ignorance slept in another room? This severe? Did he wake gasping for air, in angry tears, punching at the nearest object or scrambling at his face?

The possible images gnaw at Merlin's stomach.

To erase them before being acknowledging, or at least shove them into a dark corner in his mind to acknowledge later, Merlin distracts himself by sipping his own slightly cooled tea. The chamomile is a lighter dosage in his cup, still mixed with some lemon balm and with ginseng—a lot. The drowsiness from earlier isn't letting up and won't without aid.

He likes to imagine having conversations similar to these does help. To mend any strain on their friendship. To assure the other all is well.

They've yet to discuss trust, specifically—after yesterday's incident—if it has been broken, if all is well _truly_ between them. Merlin likes to imagine it is, though he remembers with a cringe in his heart Arthur's horror-struck expression, as well as the venom and rage in his voice. But the confirmation will have to stall for a later date.

For now, both men are content, relaxed postures and open gestures, surrounded by cold, bright gleams of December sunlight shuttered in by the windows above, and warm by the fire.

*

Nothing is been spoken at first, and that's expected.

Merlin feels stubbornly curious to what nightmarish imagining latched onto Arthur's psyche, dragging him through the muddle of it. It just _isn't_ his to know if Arthur deems it so. While being honest and open with each other, more than ever in their lives, they can still afford some privacy.

Arthur huddles down further with the multicolored, patch worked quilt draping to his shoulders. The trembling already beginning to diminish. Large fingers grasp around his cup.

They fit so _naturally_ to the spaces between Merlin's own.

Like old-fashion clockwork cogs, sprockets and mesh. Turning round and round and never stopping. When their hands lock together, sharing heat and familiarity, it can at times leave Merlin with a silly touch of giddiness in his heart and also a dull ache pressing behind his eyes.

One of Merlin's hand scratches under his eye, and he clears his throat quietly.

Finally, Arthur does talk.

"Strong magic," Merlin explains, already seeing the pieces come together, "as well as _dark_ magic can leave behind traces. They're not always plain to see." Merlin's hand moves again, without thinking, rubbing slow at the material of his shirt. "You came back from Avalon. It's magic may still be attaching itself to you. Visions or dreams tend to happen more often. More intensely before weakening over time. But like individual experiences, it varies."

Arthur gazes at him while Merlin talks, his warm voice easy. It's comforting despite the slight air of mystery surrounding Merlin's words. For a moment, Arthur almost feels as if Gaius lived on. But what Merlin is saying feels _true_ , even if Arthur has no way to tell for himself. Such a thing as _nightmares_ make sense when it comes to magic.

His eyes trail down to Merlin's fingers, eyeing them suspiciously as they trace against the cloth.

"What does that mean, Merlin?"

Arthur doesn't particularly enjoy the idea of the _any_ magic lingering with him—in his dreams or otherwise.

That's too much to ask.

"It's nothing you did. Stress is also a contributing factor, considering what's been going on," Merlin says, taking several mouthfuls of tea. "That, and having a head full of hot air." Merlin's face lights with a teasing smile.

His legs shift, folding.

"You were always right terrible about getting up in the morning, even on a good day," he points out, sounding casual but unapologetic and blunt. And not losing the smile. "Didn't even appreciate the little phrases I came up with."

Arthur's eyes narrow wryly.

Merlin is rather _smug_ with himself, isn't he?

"I didn't appreciate them because they were atrocious," Arthur shoots back. "Especially to wake up to. You're lucky I didn't clobber you early on."

Merlin snorts into his tea, a rather loud and sarcastic noise, but without unkindness.

"Then I would hate to know your definition of _unlucky_ , considering the bumps and bruises I got my first few years of service," Merlin says, softly knowingly, lips curling. "You certainly knew how to break them in." Arthur's own mouth showing no resentment with any of the words hovering, or flicker of mean spirit in his amused smirk.

*

 


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little more things that are lighthearted, a little more teasing and flirting is what this story needs! I myself could use some more reasons to smile so I hope this chapter made you smile or laugh. Any thoughts/comments very much appreciated!
> 
> Half of this fic wouldn't exist without [marlena_darling](http://archiveofourown.org/users/marlena_darling/pseuds/marlena_darling) and I wanna say thank you for taking this journey with me and you've been a best friend to me. I love you lots and this is ours.

*

The good sense of atmospheric mood, along with some further banter in and out of the kitchen during breakfast, follows hours later.

Merlin leaves Arthur with the decision of changing in the bathroom after his shower, getting to his knees on his bedroom and peering under the bed-skirt.

"Gaius?" he whispers, tutting to the kitten peering back from the shadows in displeasure. "C'mon, lad. What's the matter?"

Merlin's fingers stretch under the bed, hoping to at least brush gold fur. He pulls his hand away as Gaius makes a low warning growl in his throat and swipes at his owner, clearly not having it.

"It's _breakfast_ , Gaius," Merlin insists with the same comforting tone. His head tilts at an uncomfortable angle while having to bend himself in, hands splayed on the floor. "You haven't eaten in days. Why are you hiding?"

Another low animal warning within the shadows. He sighs, lifting his head a little and glancing at the plate of dry cat food. Gaius had no problem with dry food before.

He's acting _scared_.

Gaius definitely isn't coming out from under Merlin's bed. For whatever reason. (He had been pawing at the linen closet earlier…)

A spike of mounting dread grows. Merlin has the vague thought of the fledgling dragon and his pet being at ends with each other, based on unfamiliar scents and presence. But this early on?

That isn't reassuring.

Merlin's left hand shoves the plate of Gaius' food underneath the bed-skirt, leaving it towards the edge. Well, if he can't coax him out, Merlin wants at least for Gaius _not_ to go hungry. He can find his water in the kitchen later, he supposes.

 *

For Arthur, the showering helps. The sheen of sweat washes away. Water pounds against tight muscles, slowly helping his shoulders relax back into their original position. Arthur has a clear head for the first time in a while, with the steam around him. Today is going to be better. He can tell.

Arthur doesn't bother to grab a fresh shirt on his way in, albeit a simple mistake or just the lack of urge to search for one, but he manages to snatch the pair of jeans on the top of his things. In the mirror, Arthur combs out his hair, groaning at the tangles. He heads towards the bedroom, ready to find whatever shirt is comfortable enough. Arthur catches sight of Merlin by the side of the bed.

His eyebrows go up.

Arthur pads around quietly towards the drawers, lowering his head down to peer through the garments.

"Did you lose something?" he announces. "Or is there another reason you're sitting with your arse in the air?" Not that Arthur had been staring, of course. Simply trying to figure out what is happening without having to ask. Even if the view isn't _unpleasant_.

But Arthur keeps digging, not sparing Merlin another look. He blames it that on the unsightly jumper Merlin wears, which Arthur compares to his own clothes silently.

His are not patterned and only one or two colors, but none as bright as Merlin's. Arthur is quite alright with it; he has a feeling Merlin's taste _varies_ from what is current in today's society. Or at least, he hopes so. Merlin looks like a confused heritage.

Being distracted as he is, Merlin doesn't notice Arthur's footsteps, heavy like they are bare, until the other man is already in the bedroom.

His voice drifts into Merlin's hearing, behind him. One of the drawers being opened, its contents shuffling around. He's probably rooting around for socks or for more clothes. Everyone would be needing more layers with the long, agonizing hours of winter on its way.

There isn't any accusation in Arthur's voice. Or really obvious emotions springing forth. The flatness gives away that Arthur is purposely keeping his thoughts from spilling out uncontrolled.

Merlin's shoulders, still hunched, shakes with a tiny chuckle blooming.

"Then you would find a yoga class bloody uncomfortable," he says, offhandedly. "Loads of people in one room. With their arses in the air. Stretching."

Without getting up from his position, hands and elbows to the wood-panel floor, Merlin aims a pointed look over at his companion, mocking an eyebrow raise he had not seen previously.

Arthur's attention finally drags away. What sort of teaching is _that_? He nearly asks, but instead he finds watching Merlin far more interesting.

The description of a yoga class and its participants has the anticipated reaction Merlin expects from him: Arthur's eyebrows twitching in barely concealed confusion, mouth rounding out unspoken inquiries.

It's a stark reminder of eras of cultural difference between them. Not that Merlin can't find it in him to provide adequate teaching.

The snide nature doesn't last long.

Merlin now gets a clear glimpse over his shoulder of how blond hairs mat down, how water clings to Arthur's powerfully made arms and to the lines of torso. No matter how many times Merlin see Arthur without his armour, without his padding or his tunics, leaving expansions of naked, vulnerable skin—it never fails to send a jolt of raw heat through him.

This time is not so forgiving. A little bit of colouring spreads with a slow crawl to Merlin's face. But he refuses to let it get the best of him.

At first, Merlin has a too amused expression, but it falls right off his face. The one that follows is mildly surprised, Merlin's eyes growing bigger as he stares at him. Arthur doesn't need the flush to Merlin's cheeks to tell him the cause of it. Arthur's lips pull into a smirk of his own, eyebrows raising in innocent question.

Naturally, there is a bit of _pride_ in the fact that Arthur can illicit a reaction out of Merlin simply by not wearing a shirt. Had that happened often in the past? Arthur doesn't recall.

Merlin heaves himself on his feet, arching his back and locking his hands behind him. He then adjusts the front of his wrinkled jumper. Most people would consider it eye-bleeding and nauseatingly distracting with the blue tones crosshatched with reds and yellows and greens.

Then again… bugger on most people.

He doesn't meet Arthur's eyes at the moment but it never stops him from talking. If by talking, more like _outright_ , playful taunting. "Not that… you were paying any mind to my arse just now…" Merlin scrunches up his mouth with faint, leering thought, raising his arms to cross. "Friendly observation, yea?" he asks.

"Of course," Arthur says, dismissively. "I was more concerned about your withering sanity than anything you trying to _show off._ "

Merlin catches the seconds-long glint of delight and laughter in Arthur's eyes, of how Arthur's lips crook to another little smirk. He silently fumes.

… Generally fumes at himself for being rather obvious.

He has _seen_ Arthur without his tunic and his sword belt, without _less_ than that on more than one occasion. Shame or embarrassment or innocence is not responsible for the detestable heat clinging to Merlin's cheeks… he… he doesn't really know what is going on.

Even with the cheeky return, Arthur manages to appear unconcerned, yanking out one of the longer shirts.

"Of course," Merlin agrees, voice equally unconcerned, and not glancing away from Arthur's face.

Arthur, throughout his years of public appearances and too-frequent-for-his-liking courtships with potential wives, is used to being stared at. Whether it's while dueling, or making a speech, or simply being out in the streets of the lower city, Arthur always knew when there were eyes on him. And more often than not, in his younger years that fueled him.

He _enjoyed_ it.

But then again, most of those times he had a tunic on.

Very few glimpsed him without a covering at the least, and even fewer saw him with _anything_.

Merlin was one of those few servants, seeing as he had been the one tasked with getting him dressed and filling baths. False confidence was a skill he learned early on. But now, with Merlin's cheeks and the desired reaction his, Arthur _is_ rather pleased with himself.

Sun-gold arms and chest visibly tense as he lifts his new shirt and shoves his head through the collar-hole. Not that… all right, Merlin _is_ staring. He can to admit it.

Merlin's fingers twist around a snaggle of multicolored thread and yanks it free. Just as a lack of tactual heed yanks him.

"But then… am I to take it that my arse should be glorified?" he counters, slowly. As if they are uni students having a philosophical debate, hanging around outside, inches from skiving the next lessons to snog each other's tonsils out.

Stormy blue eyes roam over his king quickly before Merlin turn towards his bed, hands smoothing the blankets down. Like old habit. The offhanded nature of Merlin's voice doesn't waver, not even with the creeping mirth.

"Can't say I've allowed many the opportunity of that." Or _any_. He keeps that tidbit from entering the conversation.

Discussing blokes and women of his personal sexual encounters would be… foolish. For the moment.

"I believe I've come to prefer worship over being worshipped in the matters of the flesh. Though, I did imagine the right person I would allow to… indulge in ceremony." Merlin's hands still from their busying, meaningless task, as his head turns back in Arthur's direction. Expression soft and enigmatic. "Shouldn't that be right?" he murmurs, spine wooden, and his feet stepping away from the bed.

"Shouldn't it mean something bigger when it becomes a physical display… when you've laid your hands on who you worship… rooting out and _deepening_ your belief in them…"

The moment the words leave Merlin's mouth, Arthur gawks at him. _Had_ he really just asked that? This is _not_ at all where he expected this to go, and now it's Arthur's with heat in his chest, his jaw loosening.

Without even realizing it, Arthur's mind drifts to how _many_ were given the chance to ' _worship_ ' him, as he said.

If they are talking about what Arthur very well believes they are, then he may have interrogate Merlin over the _arrogant_ nature of his descriptions. _Worshipping_ meant something sacred, doesn't it? But Arthur's mouth is too dry to speak.

( _He could show him worship. Arthur could show him utter belief and need, could teach Merlin just how much…_ )

Something like dulled mesmerism reels him closer to Arthur, like being drawn to a power source. Merlin is left to hovering and standing in Arthur's space, not quite intimate, eyes level to his. It isn't that he _can't_ touch Arthur. That Merlin is afraid to.

In the back of his mind, Merlin only considers the realistic possibility that he might not want to stop… if he got started.

His fingernails grind into his palms, hands curled into themselves, knuckling. Merlin's hands clench to his sides, and his chin lifts.

"When the time comes that I worship another person," Arthur finally answers, his voice low as his eyes drop momentarily to Merlin's lips. He stares, his tongue grazing over his own lower lip before flickering his gaze back to Merlin's. "You'll be the first to know just how I handle it."

*

The flush on Merlin's face isn't as nasty as before, dying to a low hue. What feels like restless warmth under his skin, toiling away.

Merlin's eyes refused then to look away from the display of taut, muscled flesh, a bit exaggerated in how movements were purposeful and slow. (Not that Merlin was ashamed. He had useable eyes and knows exactly what he liked.) He was, however, somewhere between a bubbling sense of hilarity and awe that Arthur _preened_ at the obvious attention. Like a gods-damn rooster.

The soft, red material falls over Arthur's waist, hugging to his arms.

It's a good color on him. Suits him. Always has. Not like the quick draw of blood, _no_ —the red expresses the vibrancy and emotion of him.

Passion. Aggression. Strength. Virility. The love in his heart.

The _life_ in Arthur's veins.

(He wants that life to remain strong. To remain close. As long as Merlin walks the earth, Arthur's life is _his_ to protect. Cherish.)

To revere this human man, in a physical display or otherwise, would be no difficult feat. It had been all Merlin desired. What he _practiced_. A king and a war-lord that Merlin sacrificed so much of himself for, people he loved for… he would gladly follow Arthur into Hell's jaws. To die at his side, knowing that neither of them would be alone in this.

That's how it _should_ be.

With silent, lazy approval, he views Arthur's eyes widen, his throat clench up. He doesn't back away from Merlin, or dismiss his words.

Those same blue eyes hover over Merlin's face, lowering. Arthur's own words light but crackling with meaning, treading dangerously in symbolic waters. A pinprick of impulse: Merlin wants that mouth, suspiciously dry until the tip of a pink tongue flashes out, surging against his. To drink the new layer of wet from Arthur's bottom lip.

It would be so easy, for Merlin to raise his hands and _have_. Because, Arthur would allow it.

Because they both understood this. Somehow during this course of time between them, this was inescapably familiar. Touch is _familiar_ , whether it was glaringly slow or much too fast.

Part of Arthur's mind, the one that not so focused on keeping up with Merlin, is amazed at the fact that he manages to. Merlin never had a problem with speaking his mind, but this? This is a different. A different he had not been experienced with—not since Kay or Guinevere. Even still, the bluntness of what they are speaking of gets to him.

There is a sense of _understanding_ , that it is never fully more than exploration. They care deeply for each other.

Merlin's hands squeeze into tighter fists.

A toothy, laughing smile.

"Ah, well, I don't expect you to spare any details then, when the time comes," he says, looking Arthur dead in the eye. "It would be a right shame if you did."

"Then I won't," Arthur promises.

Merlin looks him over.

Arthur's face shifts through a couple emotions during their exchange, never lingering for too long on a singular one.

Except the amusement shining through, jerking the corners of Arthur's lips and wrinkling his mouth. That one emotion can stay for Merlin.

He is slightly impressed with the normally reserved man being willing to push back, to return the humour and jesting, even on a clearly intimate subject. It feel like Arthur was opening up to him more— _good_.

"As it is… it seems I have a gift voucher to spend on a restaurant tonight, for myself and one other. I'm thinking about taking someone I fancy…" Merlin's eyes glance off to the side, as his face shifts into a mock-thoughtful look. "Thing is… he's a bit of a wanker, and a dollophead, but I imagine he'd enjoy himself… given the opportunity to leg it and see more of what the current era has in store."

Arthur rolled his eyes as the nickname, but he is secretly a bit flattered all the same.

"Is this your attempt at courting me, Merlin?" he asks dryly, tilting his head. "Because I can assure you that I'm not that easy."

Merlin's fingers ache when they loosen. A cord in Arthur's neck thickens. Merlin's eyes followed over its shape.

"Dunno… I think it might be starting to work," Merlin says, face perking up, leaning closer as he balances a little on his toes, dropping his voice, "—I'll remember the flowers for next time, _s'rry_." A murmur.

"Your absent-mindedness does not pay you any compliments," Arthur responds, tilting his chin.

"How did you ever get to be a right _fusspot_?"

"You're doing romance the wrong way, Merlin."

Arthur's breath hits his jaw, like a wave of heat. Merlin's eyes searched the other pair of blue eyes, not in silence challenge but in _victory_.

"We'll see about that." He pulls back out of Arthur's space, saying cheekily, "Pick something to wear. I'd like to leave before sunset, if it's all the same." Merlin turns and it should have gone uncomplicated, smooth.

Merlin's knee rams into something particularly solid, sending a bolting shock of pain up his leg, and himself bumbling in place, arms jerking. He dares to glance over his shoulder at Arthur, appearing indifferent, voice even-tempered, "That was… the bedpost…" Merlin thins his lips together in blank contemplation, blinking once. Twice.

_How did it get over here?_

"I'm going to be… going now," he explains, continuing to walk with a new partial-limp, ignoring the fading pain. "Need to— pee."

As the bedroom door shuts behind him, Merlin's face twists up into a look of complete self-loathing, facial muscles drawn, upper lip sneering.

"Oh, I need to pee, Arthur," he parrots himself, hiking up his knee to rub it, " _yes_ , that has everything to do with not looking where I'm going." Merlin then lifts a hand, pressing his fingertips against the inside corners of his eyes, rubbing more gently. "Brilliant. Absolutely _brilliant_ ," he mumbles, lowering his leg. "How could he resist you now?"

Sulking down the hallway, Merlin tries to shove the rest of his dark mood out of his conscious, peering into the linen closet.

As expected, the dragon fledgling sleeps peacefully. Hopefully not for _too_ long now.

Though he's no expert on the sleep cycles, seeing as Merlin has only spent minimal amounts of time in the presence of other fledglings. It doesn't halt the crawl of worry. She doesn't _seem_ ill. Her breathing is steady. Merlin's lifetime of physician training prods at him to look into a further diagnosis, some theory, some explanation.

One of his hidden libraries contains most scraps of textbooks and journals from ancient Dragonlords—those who were his _kin_ and his brothers and his fathers, his only lineage in blood. The only possible 'scientific' researchers of this feared, magical race of creatures.

His mother, on her deathbed, gave Merlin one very important object. Something she sealed away from his knowledge for a long time.

Balinor's tattered, hand-woven (the parchment bound together by Merlin's own hand) journal lays open in Merlin's lap as he reads to himself, lounging deep in one of the mauve-colored armchairs.

There is so _much_ he had not know about Balinor.

Far more than he discovered during Camelot's time, and even now. His father had _known_ the dragons were not extinct, lying to others, lying to Uther's face. To protect them.

As Merlin discovered the same truth for himself far, far later. And as Merlin did the same, protecting their location.

A lot of the writing is smudged, or flat-out illegible. But Merlin's clever eyes do a lot of the work, his magic unwarping the text.

But nothing comes up about sleep cycles. How long it takes for a dragon fledgling of unknown origin and for an unknown amount of time asleep within its own egg to be a full strength, or even _fully awake_.

Merlin's fingers slide up his temple, into strands of dark hair, cradling his head as he snaps his father's journal shut, frowning.

He would _know_ when Tiamat woke. As soon as she does, her magic would seek out his. For comfort. For fulfillment.

In truth, he needs a break from feeling more and more agitated. And, also, Merlin has not heard a damn thing from Arthur all afternoon. The warlock heaves himself back onto his feet, leaving the journal on the armchair and disappearing through one of the library's walls. Reappearing in another hallway, taking it down for the parlour.

Merlin doesn't bother knocking on his bedroom door, forgetfully turning the knob and walking right in. Everywhere… is articles of clothing. Lumped together or thrown about or hanging off furniture.

His eyes narrow more in perplexity than irritation.

"Y'know, I didn't hear the weather forecast calling for an indoor hurricane," Merlin quips, keeping his tone wry, less playful than earlier. He stares at where Arthur is, examining the choices in his hands. "How about you?"

*

The rest of his afternoon passed idly, and surprisingly without interruption, except for the shrill, irritated meow that comes from under the bed an hour or so later.

Arthur none so gracefully jumped at the sound, only to be met with the sight of the grumpy, golden kitten staring up at him, as if offended that Arthur dared to be the one by his food bowl when he decided to emerge. Arthur wasn't above glaring at a _cat_.

He wasn't even really sure how to pass the time. Merlin was off doing _god knows_ what, and as quiet as it was, Arthur thought it was almost soothing.

As if a storm had finally passed.

He kept himself entertained for the most part. Going through his clothes, exploring a little more of the house than he had been given a chance to before. He even managed to make himself lunch, all while familiarising himself with the kitchen.

Modern devices and _technology_ were still taking a great deal of getting used to, but Arthur was a fast learner. He wasn't about to keep himself in the past any longer.

Arthur does end up back in the bedroom. Merlin told him to pick something nice. Most of the clothes Arthur received on his first day back are clean cut and decent, at least to what he has seen, especially compared to Merlin. At the thought, he gazes contemplatively at Merlin's closet.

What other clothes does he have?

This, of course, leads to a half hour or so later when the door swings open, Merlin in the doorway surveying him. Arthur looks up at the sound of his voice. He hadn't really noticed the amount of clothes he tossed around; all Arthur knew is most of it is incredibly atrocious.

Instead of answering Merlin, Arthur scowls as if personally offended, holding up an ugly sweater.

"You tell me to wear something _nice_ when this is possibly the most tame garment you own?" Arthur motions to the room, looking severely unimpressed. " _Really_ , Merlin. I'm not from this century and I can tell you're doing something very wrong."

 *

So apparently Arthur thought his time would be well-spent raiding through Merlin's drawers, and flinging about a handful of his more brightly printed jumpers and several trousers and what looks like some of his braces, hooks and clasps included. Not that Merlin has anything to hide from him... it's just— _what_ is he doing, again?

The jumper fisting in Arthur's hand is mostly navy, with the exception of the floral print. Hot pink and powder-blue flowers splashes across it, with ultra-glow purple and green leaves just as humongous.

Merlin remembers buying it somewhere in Avonmouth, round the early twentieth century, visiting a quaint, little shop outside restricted-access, chilly beach. Restricted for the matter of the numerous deaths cropping up, and less towards inland.

All younger men. Violent deaths with the result of eyes scratched out, missing, and flesh torn apart. He discovered a rusalka, and despite how legend depicted them, they were not of the _living_. Not of _magic_. They were female spirits birthed of an unjustified death, spurned and full of a rage that little fully comprehended.

He barely escaped with his own eyes intact, and managed to put her to rest.

Arthur's eyebrow, how it cocks doubtfully at Merlin, sends a prickle of irritation up him. Merlin barely holds back from grimacing.

"There's nothing wrong with my clothes, you nit," Merlin retorts, mumbling, hunching down to retrieve one pair of his trousers. "Come off it, I told you to find something to wear and everything's shambles. What's even the point of making the mess?"

Looking around now, Arthur realises Merlin's irritation is justifiable. It's _more_ of a mess than he intended, or even noticed.

" _I_ did find something to wear," Arthur tells him matter-of-factly, eyes flicking to where his clothes are laid on a chair. He tosses the jumper with the rest on the bed, forming a sort of pile of the gaudy patterned fabrics. "And it wouldn't be such a mess if I hadn't been forced to search through practically everything you own. Merlin, you said to dress nice—what exactly are _you_ wearing?"

Another pair of corduroy trousers in beige, and one of his plaid button-ups in violet-red lings in Merlin's arms as he bends to scoop up the mess. But really, Merlin should be demanding that His Royal Pratiness pick up after himself,.

Such a blighter. Arthur needs it drilled into his head to _tidy up._

When he's asked what Merlin would be wearing to their—it wasn't a _date_ , was it? it might— _whatever_ , Merlin peers up from what he's doing. Dark eyebrows drawing together in confusion.

"I dunno," Merlin says, bluntly. Shoulders lifting into a tiny, noncommittal shrug. He goes back to staring down, grabbing onto a long-sleeve. "There has to be something lying around…"

If Arthur can find something decent in a short amount of time, with less clothing choice than his ex-manservant, then how hard can it be?

Merlin's thoughts rack themselves, mentally cataloging and flipping through what he knows he owns. He folds what he had in his hands, into a wrinkled ball, letting them fall onto the mattress. Arthur makes it sound like Merlin has _nothing_ nice to wear.

Rubbish.

What does Arthur even know about the current era _anyway_? Electricity still is a foreign concept. Arthur still jumps when the refrigerator whirrs on. He spends far too much time fiddling with the radio when it is unplugged and staring at himself in the bathroom mirror, pfft.

Merlin's fingers grasp to a black-and-white checkered poplin, half-dangling off the mattress.

"There's— _no_ ," he announces, starting to frown as Merlin's eyes locate the ragged, thread-bare hole on the front.

He glances back around, spinning himself in a half-circle, blue eyes singling out a new, brightly colored shirt on the carpet. Merlin grins, but it deflates quickly. It's a zip-up, and not only that, it's insulated padding and would look rather daft at a nice restaurant.

It lands on the pile with his wrinkled ball of clothing.

"Ah, no," he exclaims to himself about some trousers, velvet-feel to the touch and bright-blue in color.

"No," to a vintage, 70's disco knockoff.

"Definitely _not_ ," to a indigo and macaroni orange-pinstripe shirt. Hmm. Merlin should get rid of that one while he still had the chance.

Merlin chucks it in a dirty hamper near the bedroom door, making a distracted noise to himself as he wanders for his closet, back to Arthur.

Within its depths, more sweaters. Polos and sweatshirts and jeans.

Pale fingers dance over the collection of vertical stripes and animal-print and finally, ridiculously festive holiday colors. "This could work," Merlin says, facing Arthur once more, holding something up.

A three-quarter sleeve bohemian shirt, patterned with Alice blue and lavender designs. It smells _clean_. Well, he thinks so anyway.

The mildly disbelieving look on Arthur's face irritates Merlin further. His new frown deepening.

"Honestly, what do you want me to do? Go out and buy an entirely new outfit because you don't _like_ any of mine?"

And then it's like a light-bulb switched on, or gears turning.

Merlin's head shakes as he recognises immediately what Arthur's thinking. "It's not happening, ta," Merlin says, snorting out a weak laugh.

"All I'm saying to you is you could use a new wardrobe, seeing as most of these are _hardly_ new," Arthur says, knowing that for once, just telling Merlin that it's happening _won't_ do it. Arthur isn't in charge anymore, and Merlin is the one he had to try to convince.

It's complete and utter role reversal, but Arthur still isn't keen on losing the potential argument here. Especially when losing meant Merlin would probably go out in _that_.

"Honestly, Merlin, where would the harm be in getting you some decent clothes?" he asks. "We could leave now and have it over and done with before it got dark."

The bohemian shirt crinkles against Merlin's restless fingertips.

Alright, _maybe…_ it's a tad out of style. Maybe the colours are too flimsy. And the material has been worn. Maybe a great deal of the clothing that he keeps around from the last seventy or so years isn't… appropriate for blending in while going out on a _date_ in 2012.

Merlin does try. Often. To blend in. Not wanting any particular attention drawn to him unless it's something he decided on.

He _does_ pay attention to the fashion trends of the people around him. Couldn't exactly avoid that while living nearby town, and working at Tom's Apothecary on minimum wage. The last twenty years seem to be less about bold, clashing colors and… more refined sophistication.

But leave it to Arthur to remind him that Merlin fails rather miserably. Though it's hardly mean-spirited. Arthur's posture as he speaks gives off more of a easygoing nature, his voice composed.

Nevertheless, the warlock aims a small, doubtful look, pitching the shirt in his hand to the bed.

He's appealing to reason? To _Merlin_?

It doesn't sound like an _order_ , more like a gentle, suggestive push, underlying with brutal straightforwardness. (Not that Arthur can order him around anymore, not without good cause to it.)

Merlin's teeth flash out, pinching his bottom lip in minute-long thought. He looks over the blond man, expression firm, arms comfortably folded.

Ugh, Arthur doesn't even look self-satisfied. How is Merlin supposed to find an excuse to carry on the fruitless argument when Arthur is being absurdly _right_ and long-suffering with patience?

A long breath escapes him, Merlin's lip rubbing raw against the sharpness of his front teeth.

He announces, eyes looking away, not letting a thwarted emphasis in his voice fade, "… …I'll get my coat."

*

 


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No big announcement! Just that WE'RE STILL GOING STRONG! I was kinda scared that we were gonna have a power outage from the summer storms and then this new chapter wasn't going up! :C But yayyyyy! Also the ever darling [calamity-anne](http://calamity-annie.tumblr.com) did this **[gorgeous art](http://calamity-annie.tumblr.com/post/144068119198/ah-this-was-fun-so-nooowestayandgetcaught-has)** for Merlin's clothes he has from last chapter and you should totally love it!! Thank you bb! I'm glad everyone still reading is here and ily lots and any comments/thoughts are so appreciated! :)
> 
> Half of this fic wouldn't exist without [marlena_darling](http://archiveofourown.org/users/marlena_darling/pseuds/marlena_darling) and I wanna say thank you for taking this journey with me and you've been a best friend to me. I love you lots and this is ours.

*

The restaurant itself is several towns over, back towards Taunton and the fairegrounds.

Somerset isn't exceptionally known for being a metropolitan area. Agriculture and tourism grows steadily from decades and decades. (And that suits Merlin fine. The lush, farming acres and rolling hills… they remind him of days that were beloved. Familiar.)

The closest to a largely populated city is Bristol, about an hour away from the little, peaceful town beyond his woods. But within the southwestern county, Taunton is a solid echo. It has all of the amenities of an urban city—shopping districts, highways and commuters, the occasional skyscraper dotting along the horizon and ancient religious buildings.

Merlin has not _stepped_ this far outside Glastonbury in… nearly as long as he diligently and painstakingly set up his magical wards and took refuge in his ivy-cloaked, run-down cottage.

The odour of fuel exhaust lingers in the air, along with the dry-heat of cigarettes and heavy perfume. The sounds of busier living, of car horns and grumbling voices, laughter and tears battle for dominance in his head. People— _mortals_ —are so _noisy_ when jammed and crowded together.

He shakes his head a little, to clear it, shutting his eyes. Merlin trails his fingers up the side of his face as the bus comes to a halt.

The seats are mainly empty, seeing as it's hours before the work day is over. But from the window, Merlin can glimpse the sidewalks and roads bustling.

Right outside, towering over everyone, the Church of St. James. Something old-world amongst the modern business dress and ambiance. He vaguely remembers the construction being the early 14th century, though much of the medieval agriculture now refurbished. The stain-glass windows shine light in rainbow-strobe high, high above.

Merlin tears his silent, bland fascination away, already off the landing. And then he realises Arthur joined him on the concrete sidewalk.

Quietly. Very quietly.

Arthur isn't staring at him. He stares _around_ him. Or stares up.

Those summer-blue eyes impossibly wide, attempting to take it all in. His lips parting in… awe? Dismay? Merlin feels like stomping on his own foot for being such a _dollophead_. How could he _forget_?

Yes, Arthur has seen what a little town was capable of. And what a park faire, or a large audience, had been like. But not something… quite at this scale. Not when it wasn't _pretend_.

It would have been very hard to miss the uneasiness settling. That glimpse of a prideful, self-satisfied expression off Arthur much earlier in the day nothing but a evanescent memory now.

Come to think of i… any person can be amazed by this, can't they? If they stop to think. Stop to consider everything around them… how centuries turned to ash, how the race of humans grew so much in those centuries. Fighting the darkness, fighting illness, fighting weaknesses and improving daily living.

After all, it's so _big_ , y'know. The world. The universe. The imagination and diligence of others. And the sensation of being alive.

But he doesn't wish to see Arthur become afraid of it.

 _Living_.

Having to be alive in this new, new world with all of these buildings and churches and loud city noises—louder than Arthur could have ever dreamed.

But for Arthur, he can honestly say he hadn't known what to expect. All he had seen was the town of Merlin's, and the faire grounds hardly counted, so he expected it all to be about the same size. Now he knows that was foolish and incredibly nearsighted of him. He just hadn't been able to imagine anything _bigger_.

Camelot was bigger, but that didn't exist anymore.

For most of the bus ride it had been pleasant; they passed through farmland and smaller, rural towns. Arthur could handle it. He didn't quite understand why they had to go this far out for clothes though, until he remembered what Morgana would always say. The cities had the _finest_ silk, because the people paid for better quality. That must not have changed over the years.

The moment he catches the first sight of buildings through the ever receding trees, Arthur feels himself give a start.

They were _so big_. Structures towering over the bus and the people swarming the streets below. Taller than any castle he has ever seen, any tower forced to siege before. The entire city on larger scale.

His eyes had been glued to the window, quickly taking in everything they passed in raw fascination. How is that even possible? Arthur began to wonder about what Merlin has told him, that magic is practically nonexistent.

How else could these buildings rise up so high without it being _involved_?

Arthur doesn't realise he was moving until he's next to Merlin.

It's beginning to feel like too much again, just standing here attempting to focus on what's around him. And it's a bit pathetic, really. Arthur has faced armies thousands of men in size, and yet a city of towering buildings is enough to send him reeling.

But he's _trying_.

And this can't have been easy. They had gone slow for a first.

Merlin _tried_ to ease his companion into the modern era, to teach him and to show him, and with all the changes he had not experienced. It wasn't that he thought Arthur needed sheltering, or to be treated delicately… he just didn't want Arthur to feel completely _lost_ in it, tiny and disoriented.

Like a tether from going back too far into an endless sea, Merlin's hand finds Arthur's fingers, slipping them into warm crevices.

"Big, isn't it?" he says, gazing at Arthur's profile and leaving out any element of mockery or smugness from the conversation.

Merlin's there, just as tall as he is and close in proximity. Arthur sucks in a breath, forcing his shoulders to relax as he tightens his grip only a little.

"Incredibly," Arthur speaks aloud, his gaze finally dropping from the sky to turn and look at the other man. He isn't surprised to see Merlin already watching. "You have somewhere in mind, I'm hoping?"

Arthur's voice is very faint. And his fingers are sweaty, but not unmanageable to grasp.

Merlin does not let go the hand go, or look away from Arthur. He watches as his friend unconsciously submits to his own acceptance, shoulders lengthening, exhaling and barely smiling.

But it's the tiniest peek into his mind. Arthur will be _okay_.

If Arthur is the soul-light to once a very dark and bleak world, Merlin's, touching everything in its incandescence and mortal-sized radiance… then Merlin will be a buoy in the middle of a strange, warm sea. And when its waters become choppy and difficult, he will anchor him with the promises of their friendship, and _honesty_ , keeping Arthur from plunging under with no breath to draw upon.

"The shopping district is High Street," Merlin says, eyes pulling away.

He nods once and points with his free hand down a separate avenue. It's still early in the day, and the sidewalks around are less crowded. Which is helpful.

"You can pick somewhere to start once we get there. This is your field trip after all, mate… you're an overbearing fusspot about being seen in _modern_ dress…"

Merlin smiles brightly at the outright annoyed look, stepping forward, dragging Arthur's hand with him.

If anything can be said about a warlock's honour, they are likely to hold their oaths. And so, Merlin does let Arthur choose.

And regrets it.

He holds back a grimace at the sign above, bordered in plain, black and white letters, steeling himself for entry as a more determined Arthur already goes straight inside, their fingers and hands untangling. How did he think differently? Of course, Arthur _had_ to pick the most snobby-looking and expensive shop on the entire High Street.

What else did Merlin expect from _royalty_? It must have been like a bloodhound's sense. Smelling out the highly-tailoured quality and cuts.

The issue isn't the amount of money Merlin can afford. With how much virtually he _owns_ with several countries and in several bank accounts, under various aliases … one thousand to three thousand pounds in ridiculously priced fashion will not burn a hole in his wallet.

It is, more or less, how uncomfortable the atmosphere is. Large, ornamented furniture that seem to be for sitting, but couldn't _possibly_ with how delicate and invaluable it appears. Chandeliers and mirrors and immaculate carpeting. If Merlin's shoes could blush in shame, they would.

And, not the mention, that one stylist with the bracelets in the corner of his eye wrinkling his nose. Likely at Merlin's crosshatched, primary-colored shirt visible underneath his thick, winter jacket.

It may or may not be nervous habit, or just habit from ages past, but Merlin clasps his hands behind his back, posture tensed.

A man comes over to them, smiling thinly. He's making a point to look at Arthur, mostly so he won't have to stare at the gaudy sweater behind him.

"Welcome to Reiss'. How can I help you?"

Arthur offers the smile in return, only looked perhaps a bit more pleasant.

"My friend is in need a new wardrobe." He mentally pauses over the word _friend_. He doesn't know what else to call Merlin to others, at the time being.

The employee barely conceals his excitement, as if the idea of getting Merlin into something different comes as a _thrilling_ challenge. Arthur hardly doubts that's the case. "Of course. Right this way, sirs. We'll have to measure you, then we can go over what you're looking for."

Arthur turns his head to Merlin, raising his eyebrows and sweeping a hand as if to say, ' _follow the man, Merlin_ '.

Merlin's hands keep tightly clasped behind him, his spine erect. To distract himself, he quickly searches out the nearby exits of the building, closing his eyes and letting his mind's eye do the work.

Through the sharp, monochromatic-hazing nature of his ability, he cataloges their distance through several aisles and the backrooms. Senses other presences and counts out a little more than a handful. All human souls. Not that he expects much different as a result.

A thin, short breath leaves Merlin's mouth, as he reopens his eyes. Face arranging into neutral. This is going to aggro, he can feel it.

One of the assistants—no, no, the gold-plated tag reads ' _Supervisor_ '—and Arthur are talking. Rather cordially.

And then talking to Merlin. Both of them are.

He blinks, confused. "Hmm?" A quiet, distracted noise

Merlin catches a bland trace of an amused smirk on Arthur's mouth.

Oh… _prat_.

He's enjoying this outing far too much.

It's barmy to pay such large amounts of money for public degradation. But Arthur isn't about to let him sneak away. Merlin has the feeling if he tries, the back of Merlin's collar will get a firm snagging onto.

Despite wanting to glare somewhat, or make an offhanded, complaining remark to Arthur about his eccentrically posh tastes, Merlin let the impulses sink away.

He isn't about to make this situation more frustration by revealing them to his king. He does, however, meet Arthur's pale blues, returning a silent eyebrow before walking past.

The supervisor, just as finely dressed as one would expect in a high-end department store, pivots abruptly at the heel, facing Merlin this time. Speaking airily, with the earlier, mildly bored face. "Lauren will be needed your signature card, before we get started."

_Of course._

Merlin politely hands the nearby woman one of his credit cards. They step away immediately—the supervisor and the unsmiling, young woman—heading towards the front registers. But not leaving Merlin and Arthur completely alone, two other attendants waiting and eyeing them. Likely unconvinced that they belong in such a place, or at least in Merlin's case with the kind of shirt he has on.

"If shopkeepers happen to see new faces or suspect whoever entered couldn't afford their products, they'll look into their credit," Merlin supplies, and then peers over his shoulder a little to Arthur. "And they've already scanned our faces to see if we're local or foreign celebrities." He gestures subtly with a head-nod to the direction of a camera overhead. "Don't worry. They won't find anything amiss."

The supervisor reappears, handing Merlin back his card.

"Everything seems to be in order, Mr. Uhas." A large, professional smile. It contrasts greatly to the once disinterested look on the older man. "We'll get you a fitting right away. This way, please," he chirps.

Merlin shoves the card back into his jean pocket, keeping his expression pleasantly neutral, following the beaming supervisor wordlessly and hearing Arthur follow suit. They approach another end of the shop, something that resembles a tailor room, but open-air.

Four, extremely tall mirrors angle in a half-circle, along with elevated, carpeted stand right in the centre of the arrangement.

He _really_ is going to be put on display.

A thorny sensation descends at the pit of Merlin's stomach. Not resembling nausea, but not something comfortable, either.

"A small fee has already been added to the bill, as customary to providing our services," comes another brightly-sounding chirp, but it's _clear_ —at least to Merlin—the malice drifting beneath it. As if any indignation or argument will prove of no value.

"It's no trouble," Merlin answers, coolly. The supervisor's eyes level his, gleaming with eerie satisfaction as the warlock's chin lifts.

A harsh snap of fingers, nearly inches from Merlin's nose. Three other shop attendants hurry over. Another woman, meeker-looking. The pinched-face man with the fashionably large bracelets and then another man. They swarm him without a single verbal command. Like _locusts_.

As Merlin lets himself be herded towards the elevated spot, by the two men, a set of fingers peel off his winter coat and fold it, and his street clothes examined with disapproval and tongue-clicks.

He doesn't see the woman, and Merlin guesses that she has been sent to Arthur. To ask him what flavor latte he wants or for a glossy-covered magazine. Or the London Standard Business paper.

*

To the extent of his knowledge, Arthur hardly believes the act of tailoring clothes could change much over the years. Perhaps they got faster, and the new styles made it easier.

He never had to deal with the tasking process of dress-fitting, but he still remembered Guinevere complaining the evenings after having to stand and endure the pricks and measuring that came with the extensive and time-consuming process.

Yet, the first thing they asked for after Merlin gave him a pointedly controlled look, was for his " _signature_ " card.

Arthur might not have caught it if he said it a few moments sooner, concentrating on just what Merlin was thinking. He had seen Merlin's restrained irritation plenty of times. It's what kept Arthur going plenty of days in the past. But when he let him by, Arthur indeed heard the business about the card, and he watched in disguised curiosity as Merlin handed the others a small rectangle of plastic.

It's another aspect he didn't understand about the modern world. Arthur was interested in learning, obviously, but pride still a factor. It had been wounded enough, and he knew here was not a place to ask what he assumed would be an incredibly _thick_ question.

Luckily, Merlin seemed to have it covered.

He glanced after Merlin then, staying close as the employees went off to scan the card.

Arthur's eyes flicked up when Merlin's voice spoke in low tones. His brow furrowed slightly, taking it in with a press of his lips. That was all possible?

The idea that these "cameras" scanning them was unsettling, simply because he didn't understand how it was happening. Merlin seemed undeterred though, so Arthur merely nodded in contemplation.

The platform wasn't unlike a small stage, and Arthur could nearly feel Merlin's resentment. Being in the spotlight wasn't something Merlin ever particularly been against, but when he felt out of place or embarrassed… that was a different story. Arthur fought the urge to smirk at the gruffness to Merlin's voice. Oh, _yes_. This would be entertaining.

Eventually, Arthur settles himself off to the side of one of the mirrors, arms crossing as he steadies himself back against the wall. As he does, the group crowds Merlin, herding him to the platform.

He's actually impressed by how _nimbly_ they had the coat off, leaving Merlin out for inspection.

At first, he doesn't notice the woman, but when her voice is next to his ear, Arthur snaps his eyes away.

"I'm sorry?"

She smiles again, her eyes crinkling. "Would you like something to drink? Coffee, tea?"

"Tea would be brilliant, thank you." Arthur tells her, returning the smile politely. It's almost odd, speaking so casually. She still treats him as an important figure, seeing as they are customers, but it's much closer to casual than he would have been used to. No 'y _our highness_ ', or ' _sire_ '.

Well, it's actually rather _nice_.

His eyes drift around the room and the design of it. He supposes this is expected in this day and age. Merlin certainly acts as if it is. The figures are what caught his attention. They are human molds, like chiseled statues to show off the outfits and fabrics they had on. He stares at one in particular when a voice returns.

"Are you looking as well?"

Arthur glances over, shifting to take the offered cup of tea from the woman as she adds, beaming, "You have fine taste—that one over there is from one of our newest collections. I'm sure it'd look rather fetching, if you'd like to try it on. It comes in other colors."

It isn't long before she herds him around the store, both skeptically looking at overcoats and dress shirts, scrutinizing what will look best. A few he directs in Merlin's direction, as a helpful hint.

*

Aaaaaaaand out came the measuring tape. He should have known.

Merlin can see it unrolling, fabric-thin, between the chubby fingers of the other attendant. The one without the bracelets. The one bloke who doesn't look like something _died_ under his nose. Merlin supposes he should consider reading name-tags, since they are right bloody there.

It isn't as if Merlin hasn't been in a department store before. Or doesn't know to expect at a fitting. He just… _doesn't_ … particularly care for this.

But it isn't about what _he_ wanted. This is about Arthur's _choice_.

Damn warlock oath-pact. That probably doesn't exist. But still.

"Are you looking for anything specific, Mr. Uhuas?" The supervisor asks this from the main floor, and Merlin rather he stays down there. Before Merlin can think to answer, or open his mouth, he's interrupted, "We have a variety of brands and tailored colors, _although—_ " A humored, grimacing sniff accompanies a short laugh. "—I believe that you might have had your fill of the spectrum, no?"

Cold, ringed fingers slide against the point of Merlin's chin, lightly touching but clenching and leaning it in the desired position.

"You have lovely cheekbones, who did you go to?" He meets eyes with the bracelet-man, and they are just as his grip. Ice and steel, permeating gray color.

Merlin's teeth bare a little.

"No one," he whispers, voice low.

Somewhere in the backdrop of everyone's hearing, a bell goes off. The supervisor becomes stern, lifting a hand to snap his fingers again.

"Pierre, I need you at the front," he orders, exchanging a heated stare at the assistant who scoffs and rolls his eyes. "Bradley, whatever Mr. Uhas needs, I trust you can provide."

The only person left with Merlin nods courteously, lips pressing together.

"Of course, sir."

With that, they are alone. As alone as someone can be in a ridiculously pricey shop with eyes and cameras at every angle.

"Have you ever been for a fitting, Mr—?"

"—Leon is fine," Merlin says, mumbling. Rubbing at his chin. _Blimey_ , that was an unpleasant experience. His magic shivers with his physical reaction. "You don't look like a complete arse," he adds offhandedly, and then winces slightly as the runaway words manifests. _Oops_.

Merlin expects anything but a genuine-sounding laugh through a mouthful of perfect, white molars.

"Some might say differently," Bradley tells him, just as offhandedly. "So, fitting?"

"Not really, mate."

"It's relatively painless." The measuring tape stretch out down Merlin's jean-calf, tapping him. "I measure, you stand still. We found you some clothes. You leave with your sanity intact. Ace?"

"Ace," Merlin echoes softly, shoulders easing but not completely from tension. (Where the heck did Arthur wander off to… _the bugger…_ )

Not that anything would be easier with Arthur's constant smirking.

He daydreams a little, getting used to the constant sensation of a stranger's physical contact before jerking away suddenly, those chubby fingers at the inseam of his thigh.

"Oi!" Merlin lets out a breathless chuckle, looking down at the kneeling, ginger-haired man, smiling awkwardly. "Usually I'd ask for a drink before getting that comfortable."

Whether it's Merlin's nervous habit to keep babbling, or an strobe-impulse of memory—of heated, dark-eyed gazes across a crowded room, flirting across tables, secretive grins—it strikes a mistaken chord.

"Sorry, I didn't know you were jumpy." Bradley shifts away, grinning and holding up one of his hands in surrender. "Strictly professional business we run, promise," he says, seriously, but mischief in his grin. "Unless you were free by 18. There's a fantastic pub down the road."

Merlin's smile tightens. An mortified, shameful bubbling in his chest.

"Um…"

"These are for you," comes a tiny, nearly squeaky voice. The meek-looking woman appears nearby. She holds up several articles of clothing, turning a little pink in the face as their eyes focus intently on her. "Your friend helped pick them. He's going for a fitting as well."

"Two for one, excellent," Bradley comments idly, more likely to himself as he looks over the new clothes in unabashed approval.

If Merlin's throat wasn't so dry, he may have uttered a choking noise.

"I'm not… _m'sorry_ …"

As he looks up at Merlin, all mischief disappears.

"No worries, mate." Bradley stands up, clapping Merlin's shoulder a bit on the rough side. But still friendly. "The good ones are always straight."

" _Mhm_ ," hums the woman's tiny voice, again.

Her pink color deepens as she realises she spoken aloud. Bradley flashes her an enduring look as she flees, high heels muffling any click to immaculate carpet.

"The measuring is finished. Mostly. If anything is off, we can pin and sew the correct measurement." Merlin's hands are deposited with the clothes. "You'll find the private changing rooms behind the mirrors. Take a right down the corridor."

*


	35. Chapter 35

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE CATALYST FINALLY HAS **[AN OFFICIAL FANMIX](http://8tracks.com/awhellnah/the-catalyst-official-fanmix)**. Please enjoy it, lovelies! ♥♥
> 
> Half of this fic wouldn't exist without [marlena_darling](http://archiveofourown.org/users/marlena_darling/pseuds/marlena_darling) and I wanna say thank you for taking this journey with me and you've been a best friend to me. I love you lots and this is ours.

*

Arthur discovers the woman assigned to him to be quite helpful, easily suitable for her position.

He learns more about styles and cuts, and she must have been able to sense he has a basic understanding—asides from picking up what she was saying, Arthur also _isn't_ dressed like Merlin.

She sells more products than others, but Arthur goes along with it. Most of the high-quality garments seem worth it.

They linger through the aisles, picking out button-ups and overcoats, while Arthur discusses if _these ties_ are necessary. He certainly never wore them, but has a feeling that _cloaks_ are not proper attire for a night-out any longer.

Every once in awhile, Arthur tosses a glance in Merlin's direction, especially when the man with the jingling bracelets passes by to take care of the new person at the door. Merlin is still being measured, which is exactly what Arthur is being pushed to do at the moment.

"It'll be quick, especially since you know what you're looking for," the woman tells him, as if sensing that Arthur isn't so eager to go through the same process as Merlin.

Arthur knows his measurements, at least since the last time he has done this, but the sudden realisation that the units could be _entirely_ different keeps his mouth shut. "I'll go take these to your friend. Try on what you have, and then we'll fit them for you."

That sounds like a much better option, so Arthur heads to where she directs him, in the corridor to the left.

It opens up into a room, branching off into smaller ones if the doors are any indication. A few large mirrors in between the doorways, which Arthur glances to before opening a door of them. Seeing that the room is empty, Arthur steps inside and shuts it behind him.

Once again, inside is a _mirror_. They seem to be all over the place.

Arthur eyes the pile of clothes brought with him, then with a small sigh, he sets them down and tugs off his V-neck.

The first outfit does nothing to compliment him. The shade of blue is all wrong, and not what he's looking for. The white isn't _bad_ , and it looks nice with the black trousers she picked out. When Arthur tries on the red shirt, he immediately approves.

Perhaps he's sentimental. Perhaps it's familiarity.

Arthur turns around after he buttons up, searching for the black coat. Ah, _yes_. He pulls it off the hanger and slips into it, fiddling with the sleeves before looking at himself in the mirror. There are a few diagrams on the wall, with helpful tips on how to wear them, and after looking it over, Arthur slips together two of buttons in the middle.

_Not horrid._

He gives himself a once-over, checking to see if it's to his satisfaction. The material is smooth and trim, and the look has appeal. _Different_ , yes. Bad, no.

But then, there are the _ties_.

She sent a few of them in, just to see how he likes them. Arthur picks up the long piece of fabric, staring in apprehensive confusion.

… How does it work?

Arthur slides it around his neck and under his shirt collar, but after that, he's clueless.

His lips purses in mild frustration, but he decides to say nothing. He'll figure it out.

His mind starts to drift back to Merlin. He hasn't heard any _shouting_ , so perhaps everything is actually going well. No one has come to kick them out yet, at least.

Arthur exists of the dressing room, slowly padding towards one of the large, three-sided mirrors off on the wall. Might as well get a full view, to see where it needs to be adjusted.

*

That was… for a lack of better explanation: _interesting_.

Had he come off as flirting?… …

Merlin frowns to himself, going over his own words to Bradley in his head. He meant the statement more as a _lark_. Guess it didn't come off that way.

It doesn't matter. Merlin doesn't _date_ anyone, not in the modern sense. Too much risk for both parties. And it's unnecessary.

 _Until_ he asked Arthur. Then Merlin genuinely _wanted_ to.

A date has benefits as a pleasant distraction from all the harsh, unwinding events that have occurred ever since Arthur returned from the depths of Avalon. Gave them a moment to breath. Or an opportunity to show Arthur the _new_ culture he lived in. Or a little more time for Merlin to rack his thoughts about how to talk about the future.

They do need to. Have another talk. About the fledgling. About Mab. About the matter of Arthur returning. About _what to do_.

But Merlin is willing to let another day go with all that unaddressed.

As promised, the changing rooms in another corridor are easy enough to locate. Even without helpful signs. (They really _should_ have signs. What if someone ended up in a merchandise room by accident?)

The collection of silky button-ups and trousers in Merlin's arms, supposedly hand-picked by his _Royal Majesty King Prat_ , dumps into a messy heap in his individual stall he chooses from the middle aisle. The stall is just as immaculate looking as the carpets. Platinum hooks attached to the walls.

Stars and heavens, he's afraid to even _touch_.

Merlin's frown appears again, eyebrows furrowed as he examines a three-piece suit with shades of dark grey and blue. Wool. Or possibly cashmere. Or possibly both. It has pale blue stripes in it… odd. It doesn't feel like him just by looking at it.

He tosses it.

Merlin tries on what there is for the button-ups, some plainer than others, some with patterns. He settles on a crisp, pressed white shirt. And the suit jacket that doesn't feel like an overcoat draping over him (and he really wouldn't want a pinning and remeasuring).

An almost lacquered sheen to the black fabric. In the mirror, it looks classic. With the simple, black belt and with the longer suit trousers: _Handsome_.

Merlin runs a hand through his dark hair, peering at his reflection. No gel or anything. No comb either. He doesn't bother. His hair is short enough to look decent windswept.

Shoes don't fit him either — the ones Bradley tossed at him before leaving. They are fine and likely Italian leather. But not workable.

He fumbles clumsily at the buttons on his sleeves and his jacket.

It still… doesn't feel like him. The monochrome colors.

 _Boring_.

The clothes are _boring_ as they are.

Merlin bends over for the pile of clothes again, and locates a couple of neck-ties. His lips perk at the corners as he glimpses the diamond-pattern. Still black and white, but far more exciting.

Within minutes, he has the tie-knot comfortably situated at his throat, his fingers smoothing the material and tucking the end in. No sweaty palms making it more difficult, or cold sweat.

Ties used to be… an issue. Past experiences and all.

(No one has any reason to hang him in the gallows. Or take his head to the chopping block.)

Merlin closes his eyes, fingertips gently brushing the base of his throat. Face devoid of emotion. Attempting to push out the noises of raging screams closing in around him and heavy, curdling smell of his own sun-baked blood. Many centuries ago.

He shouldn't… go back there.

The stall door opens. By then, he neatly folded his rejected pile, leaving them on the carpet-floor. Merlin carries out his clothes he worn in and his boots in hand, black sock-feet making no sound.

He steps out towards the dimly lit main room. Merlin expects to head back to the shop assistants, insist on some quick adjustments and less rubbish shoes and collect Arthur and _go_.

And then he finds Arthur in the same room, though a little bit in the distance, examining himself in one of the side-mirrors.

Stormy blue eyes examine Arthur as well, as Merlin silently deliberates on whether or not to draw attention to himself. But the first thing Merlin notices is the crimson undershirt peeking from the lapels. Such a gem-bright, solid color. And then how a trickle of lightheaded nostalgia creeps over the warlock, stealing his next breath.

And then, of course, the red-patterned tie slung round Arthur's neck, undone. It's gorgeous.

"Did they not tell you how to tie that?" Merlin asks, smiling as he teases. "Or did you forget?"

He places down his boots and his original clothes on a nearby decorative armchair, coming up behind where Arthur stands.

Arthur's hands move over the sleek, dark fabric of his jacket, fingers trailing to the seams of his trousers. It fits surprisingly _well_ , without having to be custom-tailored. A little bit would have to be taken in on the pants, but besides that, it would be alright.

The tie-fabric limp around Arthur's collar, hanging unattractively open against the black contrast. Arthur's eyes narrow at it in the mirror. _How_ difficult can this be?

Right when he's about to try again, a voice cuts him off.

Arthur's gaze snaps up, catching sight of Merlin behind him. When he does, Arthur's mind slows nearly to a standstill.

The suit is trim, the black matching the ebony of Merlin's hair. The white stands out too, giving Merlin a little bit of color to his skin. He looks _completely_ different from the mismatched, jumper-wearing man he had been a little while before. Incredible, even.

And he has _his_ damn tie on.

His eyes don't leave Merlin's reflection as the other man comes closer, taking in the smile as Arthur's own lips curl faintly. He remembers he's supposed to fire back.

"Bloody well figured I knew how to do it." Arthur answers, yanking on the darker red silk in exaggerated exasperation, "The nerve of them."

Merlin bites down another smile this time, as Arthur's eyes roll, as he grumbles about the shop attendants expecting him to be a pro at this. Which is rather _hilarious_ if you thought about it. But only to Merlin.

The warlock had been (albeit privately) flattered by the widening of pale blues and Arthur's jaw slackening when he set eyes on him.

If anything is fiercely recognizable to Arthur right now, it may be this: fancy attire, being waited on, and being admired.

(The last bit would possibly come later in greater _intimate_ detail.)

Arthur is in his element, despite the fact that he's displaced out of his time. Scrutinizing his own choices in the full-length mirror, fidgeting with the shape of his cuffs and sides of his own black jacket.

Merlin prefers seeing him at ease, and is thankful for it.

Arthur's fingers rise to the patterned tie, thoughtfully fingering the satiny fabric, but his eyes are on Merlin's own diamond-patterned. Examining it a very mild degree of doubtful nature.

"Let me," Merlin says, the deep-resounding of laughter in his voice. He bids Arthur to turn, back to the mirror, and picks up the tie-ends. "You'll cock it up."

He steps in close, inches possibly from breathing space, eyes firmly on his task. Grinning.

"Like this, see; here's the fox and the rabbit." He shows Arthur the longer, flatter end of the tie through Arthur's collar and then the narrow end on the opposite side. "The fox is the bigger than the rabbit and is always more aggressive.'

"They chase round," Merlin tells him, crossing the wide, long end over the narrow, and tucking around, "jumping the creek," he tugs up the longer end, making a loop, "but the fox is always faster," rounding the longer end again, "and jumps the tree roots," another tug up, "until the sun begins to set and the fox finds the rabbit's burrow," bringing the wide, long end through the newly form but loosened knot.

"And then…" Merlin's hands gently tighten the red-patterned tie, slipping the knot until it sits neatly at Arthur's throat. The ominousness shatters as the warlock chuckles, quietly. A burst of sweet, warm breath hitting Arthur's cheek.

"Well, you've seen a hunt."

It would be a small lie, but a _lie_ nevertheless, if Merlin were to tell himself that it's purely innocent reasons to step in close. To make an excuse without letting on and to sense Arthur just out of reach, like psychological, self-inflicted torment. Brush his fingers so _close_ to the skin peeking over the red, folded collar and under Arthur's chin.

Arthur's breath is quicker than it should have been if he was entirely relaxed, chest dragging in air. Dragging it out.

He understands what Merlin's doing; a trick even older than him when it comes to memorising. His chambermaid told him a tale of a serpent when learning to tie his boots when he was little. Not that Arthur needs such a tale now.

He follows quick fingers as they cross and loop the tie. Arthur slowly watches it piece together, seemingly intricate steps creating the knot, much like Merlin's. Arthur could say for certain that he probably _never_ would have discovered that on his own, but doesn't plans to say as much. Arthur's eyes lift from the tie to stare outright at Merlin.

The corner of Merlin's mouth quirks further, feeling affectionate, chary endearment flood him.

Arthur doesn't really need to be taking notes on how to properly tie a Half Windsor knot, but it would be nice if he could pay _attention_ for once instead of…

Merlin gazes up, into the other man's stare, and his thread of introspective clips clean apart at just how _close_ they truly are.

And they… are very much alone. In this ridiculously extravagant dressing room area.

Alone.

No one poking and prodding him.

 _Alone_.

It would be nothing at all for Merlin to tilt his head forward, to suck Arthur's tender-looking bottom lip between teeth with all the vigour and heart of years _wasted_ with useless pining and lonely dreaming.

" _Uhm_ …" Merlin interrupts his own vivid fantasy, blinking a moment.

It's in Arthur's nature to mess with him, the jokes slipping over his tongue without any first thought or preamble to them. Arthur feels at ease when doing it. Now, he's making a point to be sure his quips hold less of a bite, no added sting that would be used to hurt Merlin.

After reading the tome and realising how many times he done it unintentionally, and some utterly intentional and necessary, Arthur doesn't _want_ to.

Especially not now, with the air between them warm and effortless, as if nothing from yesterday ever happened. Arthur is painfully aware of it.

He knows Merlin is too. Arthur can tell because Merlin doesn't step back, the cheerful grin or bland irritation replaced by a distracted smile and wide blue eyes that happen to meet his once he finishes with the tie. Arthur smirks, catching the falter in the pace of their conversation.

Merlin has his mind on something _else_ , and Arthur is all too curious as to what that is.

"Next time I have to dress myself, I'll try to keep that in mind," he says. "You seem to know this well, Merlin, for someone who probably doesn't even _own_ one."

Merlin's dark eyebrows pull together, but the sudden, wry smile prevents any earnest indignation. " _Oi_ , I had a few spares." he protests softly. "Here and there."

"I'm sure."

Merlin's hand that smoothed Arthur's tie in, arranging it and tucking the end into Arthur's suit-jacket, does not lift as intended.

A stray fingertip hovers along the dotted pattern, tapping out uncharted, star constellations against the center-line of Arthur's firm sternum.

"I had someone teach me, as well, y'know," Merlin's voice dry and murmury as Arthur's had been, his face open and unassuming, blue eyes on blue. "It take… practice, insight, or some rot."

Arthur has been remarkably attentive and _unopinionated_ during Merlin's far-too-amused demonstration. (Blessings upon them all.)

Merlin's left hand does lift this time, meeting the end journey to the revealing gap of the fashionable, black lapels. It relocated with Merlin's long, pale forefinger hooking slightly under Arthur's leather belt strap, and his thumb-pad grazing against the silver buckle.

"Dunno if I've said this already, but you look brilliant," he murmurs, grin soft, this time focusing his attention away, chin leaning down.

Arthur's sure his eyes widen a moment when his belt tugs forward.

He reaches up to grasp a curious hand onto Merlin's sleek tie, thumb grazing the fabric before looking at him again.

"And you look incredible," Arthur says, leaning in slightly, as if inspecting something he had not seen before. Giving Merlin _compliments_ is not a habit he had ever gotten the chance to get used to, but he figures this won't be a bad place to start. "Dressing up suits you, Merlin."

It really does. The outfit hugs his already trim figure in a way that doesn't make Merlin appear tiny. If anything, it accentuates what's already there. An elegance in the black and white that Arthur admires—something that seems so simple, yet looks so flattering.

Especially on Merlin.

Arthur's hands continue to hold on to the tie, fingers sliding down the checkered fabric with just a little pressure.

*

It's _very_ nice to be alone for a moment.

(Merlin thinks it was worth mentioning again.)

Well, not _completely_ alone, obviously. The cold, ridged sensation of Arthur's metal belt-buckle to Merlin's thumb confirms that. Being without the shop attendants flustering around Merlin much like a vainglorious noblewoman with her handmaidens feigning spineless nature but in truth, likely searching for weakness.

The dressing room area, still sheltered from main hall and the exposed, mirrored platform, lacks a sound system above or even the soft trickling of orchestrated, background music. It smells overpoweringly of designer cologne, based on its potency of vanilla and spices, but far too unpleasant. But Merlin is in no hurry to return to the platform.

Not to the attendants, or scrutinizing, ugly looks, or exhausting but adaptable mind-games against the upper crest of the shopping district.

He can forget about all of that, just for this one moment. Lost in his bland amusement in how Arthur reacts to the barely-there tug at his waist, eyebrows ticking up, unmistakably _lovely_ lips parting.

The responsive, appreciative noise that comes out, humming Arthur's throat, tingles the base of Merlin's spine.

He swallows, audible, as the smirk on Arthur's face brightens and widens. And that's when Merlin's diamond-patterned tie is handled by the other man, slipping from its neat arrangement tucked in his suit.

The pressure of Merlin's collar budges, shifting to tighten a little as large, sun-gold fingers grasp. The thrilling, pleasant swirl of his magic deep, deep in his veins flare within Merlin. Ancient and instinctive.

At the genuinely spoken compliment, Merlin lifts his expression, meeting Arthur's benevolent gaze.

For mere seconds, or perhaps longer, the nature of Merlin's blue eyes fade out, his pupils enlarging, gulping down the colour before melting into a soft, shimmering yellow-orange.

Arthur has seen it before, _of course_. Merlin's eyes flashing gold when using magic. But this is different—he's not _doing_ magic. It's still there anyways; a summer-glimmer along with dilated pupils. Arthur can feel his inhale go sharp in his chest.

For the briefest of instances, Merlin wonders what happened.

What could have sparked the manifestation, the unafraid and searching astonishment in Arthur's eyes returning.

Maybe it isn't as complex as he's making it. Maybe the invasion of personal space between feels so impossibly new, each time. To him. To Arthur. Maybe Arthur is just bad at hiding it so close up.

It isn't as if they weren't _unaccustomed_ to crowding each other, in a playful, taunting manner or otherwise. Merlin had serving duties very long ago, and remembered them well, dressing and undressing his king, preparing Arthur for training or for ceremonial business with other kingdom representatives, or for the long, arduous battles that may have taken a season and a day to see come to an end.

Merlin has seen every inch of Arthur there had been to offer for viewing. He had strictly kept his interest and duties clinical even with his personal, unspoken feelings. Arthur was and now is equal parts gentle and deadly in his beauty.

For all his roughness, hard lines and firm muscles crosshatched with milky scars, he is _fragile_. As a human, and only a human, he is vulnerable.

But never breakable.

Arthur's soul and his mind couldn't stubbornly _grasp_ at the concept.

He had been torn and shred, bent at impossible lengths not just physically. He _died_ in Merlin's arms. And yet all that pureness in Arthur's heart, all that untainted devotion and loyalty… stayed.

But this newness, the snogging and the flirting, waking up with Arthur's heartbeat thudding steadily pressed Merlin's forehead, yes—it happened so _fast_ and so effortlessly that he feels a soft, creeping fear.

(Fear of… happiness?)

Merlin didn't like the unpredictability, at first. His comfort zones spent far too long wanting _control_ and distance. Adjusting to the lack of emotion and desire. Comfortable in stoicism and blankness. And then, he decided it's… brilliant. The excitement, the unpredictability coupled with the fear of not knowing. Life felt adventurous, again. Life felt… _alive_.

It feels so good to be alive, and with Arthur, again.

By the time anyone can blink, Merlin's eyes return once more their solid, unchanged blue. Eyes that smile in gladness. "I don't fancy the dressing up bit, personally," he argues, but without menace or harshness. Mocking a contemplative head-tilt. "But it feels good on occasion."

Somewhere during this, Merlin's forefinger wraps to the leather strap. He pulls forward slowly, nudging Arthur off the balls of his heels.

" _Very good_ ," Merlin breathes, the point of their noses pressing together.

Arthur's fingers tighten on the diamond-patterned tie.

Merlin is a _tease_.

He knows this already, but the thought comes at the forefront of his mind as Merlin leaves the words on his lips, crackling with electricity. This morning has been enough of a sign that this wouldn't be the end of it.

"That so?" Arthur murmurs, smiling. He claims the rest of the space between their lips. "How good does it feel?"

The remnants of vibrations, lost in translation, ghost Merlin's lips, but they are not his own. Arthur's lips like heat and pliant against his mouth. When Arthur kisses him, full and demanding, not an empty space for protest—a pleasurable tremor seizes Merlin.

Merlin's fingers loosen around the belt, but distance is not granted. If he dragged them down, to lightly stroke the front of Arthur's trousers, Merlin would feel him growing heavy with need.

Though it would be unwise to satisfy that need in a public dressing area.

(… _At least for today._ )

Arthur's lips pull away, as he apparently feels the urge to speak during a bloody snogging session, and Merlin can't help it—a small, frustrated noise escapes him, eyes cracking open and glaring a little.

"Would be a lot better if you'd shut it," he mutters, no more than a rasp, taking Arthur's face into both of his hands, belt forgotten.

They kissed hard, eventually some rhythm gained. A fragment of the earlier fantasy lodges into Merlin's immediate thoughts. He sucks Arthur's bottom lip until his teeth registers the pillowy flesh, nipping the very tip of it until a tiny, sharp burst of pain surfaces.

With the world so narrowed down, equilibrium is unimportant. Until Merlin's thigh harshly thumps the nearby armchair. One hand goes behind him, to steady himself. The other drags along Arthur's jawline, thumbing it until Merlin's fingers seeks refuge into blond strands, hooking there.

Gods— _yes_.

Arthur's hands grasp firmly onto Merlin's shoulders.

His lips part just enough for his teeth to find Merlin's plush lower lip, mimicking his actions from before as he grazes it with his tongue. Licking along the seam to get his point across that he wanted Merlin to open up.

Arthur may have been out of date when it came to customs of _affection_ , but even he knows that this would hardly do them any good to continue this here. That doesn't mean he had the _will_ to stop.

Holding this back for years, consciously, but for Merlin… it had been centuries. Those were centuries, decades, minutes that Arthur had not been able to do this.

He couldn't hold Merlin this close, hands wandering aimlessly and desperately along his body just to satisfy the urge to _touch_. Arthur hadn't been allowed to kiss Merlin with this amount of urgency and passion, or for that matter, kiss him at all.

Now he can. Arthur can back him into a wall and hold him there until they are both gasping for air if he well and truly wanted to, and if Merlin would allow it. He can do all of this and more, and he _wants_ to.

Arthur has been the objection of affection and craving for Merlin, years and years and years in the making. And now with the opportunity to _vent_ all that, to have Arthur understand and return those affectations with his own… it's maddening and deviling and _gods_ he wanted him.

The empty, lonely spaces to fill with Arthur's light. To feel _vulnerable_.

Human and weak, cherished and bruised. Not an all-powerful, immortal warlock. Not a country's _legend_ come-to-life. To be Arthur's, and only his. As he has been. Let him take Merlin apart, peel away barriers, strip away cynicism. Leave everything else.

He could accept that, as terrifying as it might have sounded.

The solid heat off Arthur's face draws him in, helps Merlin fasten himself from drifting, from slipping under the rising tide. Hands roam to wherever they can reach of Merlin, Arthur's palms sliding like comfortable weight against the black, lacquered sheen of fabric.

Awareness of this intoxicating in itself, and Merlin only imagines what Arthur's hands would feel like without the barrier of clothing. On places uncharted still, his calves, the groove of his thighs, his arse. Touching and memorising every inch. Arthur's face set with determined concentration, treating Merlin's body as a freshly ink map.

A low, embarrassingly pleading groan passes out from Merlin's throat, as Arthur's teeth repeated an earlier move done and—oh, _fucking_ hell, what is Arthur doing with his tongue?

Merlin's arm holding himself up from careening towards the decorative, embellished armchair tremors.

No, _no_.

Out the adjacent corridor from the dressing room, the alarms went off shrilly.

His eyes fly open. Merlin's head turns around to the awful noise, lips separating from Arthur's.

He swears under his breath when the realisation slams into him, visibly tensing. "Go," Merlin says curtly, grabbing at Arthur's wrist and tugging him to follow down the corridor.

Is it fire alarms? Did someone trip the security tags? Is it a robbery? In that case, they are going out the locked, back doors Merlin already previously located when they first stepped foot in.

Arthur has never seen a gun before in his life, and Merlin _isn't_ about to let him come face-to-face with the business end of one.

They duck into the front end of the store.

"Merlin, what's going on—?"

No panicked expressions on the faces of the shop attendants. One of them shakes their head in unconcealed disgust.

So… _not a robbery?_

Merlin lets Arthur's wrist drop, approaching the small crowd to witness the supervisor barely holding back his apparent fury.

"—There are _scheduled_ breaks!"

The one who tripped up the emergency exit doors— _Pierre, was it?_ —crumples up his lit cigarette against the wall.

"Whatever," he mumbles.

Arthur glares in restrained irritation. He has _no_ bloody idea what the man with the bracelets just interrupted, and Arthur wishes he could to _throttle_ him.

Instead of truly ripping him to figurative and verbal tatters, the supervisor then spots the customers, rushing over to apologize.

"A false alarm, not to worry," he proclaims, waving his hands over his head.

The crowd disperses, going back to their usual tasks, and Merlin's shoulder is tapped. Bradley asks, pleasantly smiling, "Find anything?" Eyes roving over the untucked tie.

"Yea. This is fine," Merlin answers, gesturing to what he's wearing, returning the smile weakly.

"Not fancy the shoes or did you get a fright about the alarm?"

He glances down at his bare, socked feet. "Both, possibly," Merlin admits. "Glad the, uhm, place isn't burning down to cinders."

It could have been his imagination, but he thinks he heard Arthur snort behind him.

Before Merlin checks, or possibility retaliate, Merlin's eyes zone in one the shoe display to his left side. He picks out a pair of white Converse, corner of his mouth quirking. "These will do."

Arthur couldn't help but scoff at Merlin's complete and utter paranoia. So that is what he _worried_ about? Arthur assumes they would have felt the heat long before any of that happened.

He observes Merlin and his employee, before his own assistant— _Donna_ , her nametag reads—draws him away, finishing the trims on his suit.

"Is that all for you, Mr. Penn?"

The name catches him off guard at first, sliding a quick glance at Merlin before nodding. "This should be fine, thank you," he announces. "These shoes work as well."

Donna smiles again, clasping her hands.

"Brilliant," she says. "I'll ring you up if your friend's done as well."

She's possibly the most _tolerable_ one in the shop. It does help that she offhandedly insults Pierre was through the duration of Arthur's pinning. "Mmhm," Donna hums, chewing her lip while she looks him up and down. "That suit is meant for you, love."

Arthur grins, looking just a bit too pleased himself.

"You might be right."

*

Merlin slips on the cream-white Converses, lacing them up. His suit's elegance isn't wrecked, but rather _enhanced_ by the stylish and clean-casual nature of his shoe choice. Even his assigned shop assistant gives a fleeting smile as Merlin bends down to lace.

"Ready for the pinning?"

"Do I have to?" Merlin grumbles under his breath, trudging along behind Bradley who throws him a silent but cheerful look on his freckled expression. The process itself doesn't last as long as he expects, a few minutes perhaps, but Merlin is still on edge, avoiding begrudging stares with everything but the platform below him.

Arthur disappeared without saying anything, Merlin assumes for suit alterations as well. (Not that he had been _dragged_ away. Arthur did astoundingly well with rubbish like this. Busy atmosphere.)

"Think we're done here, mate," Bradley comments, a long, silver pin dangling between his gritted teeth.

"Not a moment too soon," Merlin says, nodding towards Arthur reappearing with his own shop assistant, glancing around for Merlin. The ginger-haired man follows Merlin's eyes, and then smiles again.

"Where'd you find the likes of him?"

"Bit of a long story," Merlin says after a minute, expression softening.

Bradley straightens up from kneeling, twirling the pin between his fingers.

"Can see why you weren't interested earlier," he says, appreciatively. That brings on a muter, escaping breath from the warlock, almost resembling a close-mouthed, humming laugh. There's no sting of jealousy in Merlin's heart, or a disheartening, sinking feeling.

"He's not comfortable with having his personal life out in the open," Merlin says.

Bradley glances back to Merlin quickly, eyebrows ticking up at the fact that the other man had not denied the obvious, teasing accusation.

"… And you are?"

A strobe-bright flash of recent memories strike him, but luckily not reeling Merlin from where he stands: A hard, unforgiving kick across his jaw, and the bruising agony lacing the aftereffects. The cold, wet mud-puddle. Charlie's livid scowl. Merlin's fingers scrambling desperately for the tote bag holding the unhatched dragon's egg. Gilda's hand supporting him, bidding him to lean back into her.

Arthur, helping him up, frustrated and shaken with guilt, broad arms wrapped tightly around Merlin that night, lips pressed in his dark hair.

"No, I don't care about what other people think of me," Merlin murmurs, truthfully. "Bit too old for that now—they're not important."

It settles the discussion to something of a closing point, and before Merlin goes up front to join Arthur at the check-out, he heads back to the dressing rooms. Snatching up his clothes. Arthur's own are with him, folded into a bag by a red-haired woman.

"Did you find everything to your liking?" The supervisor asks, cordially. Merlin leaves his answer to a simple, hushed nod, hugging his own semi-folded clothes up to his chest.

The price number rung up on the machine is more or less what Merlin expected, especially for two, designer outfits, and pays with the same card. The supervisor, not the stand-in for the cashier "Lauren" already there and looking unamused by his constant presence, rakes his eyes over the multi-colored, crosshatched shirt in Merlin's arms.

"Are you… _sure_ you wouldn't like that disposed of, Mr. Uhas?"

"Needs a good burning, more like," Pierre announces, in passing. Somewhere nearby, another person grimace-laughs.

Instead of shooting a foul look at either of them, as Arthur is and looking like he wants to speak up, Merlin says, tonelessly, "No, thank you," taking back his bank card, politely.

He plans on keeping that way, ignoring his anger, until Merlin sees the display of fashion-savvy sunglasses to his right. A large, mocking grin spreads over his face.

On his way out, Arthur with him, Merlin spins around, picking up an aviator pair of sunglasses.

"For the service charge!" he calls out, being sure to direct a sly, clearly exaggerated wink in the direction of the increasingly gobsmacked-looking supervisor, and slipping them on. " _Cheers_!"

Surprisingly enough, the tags never go off when Merlin strolls out the exit, shoulders held high and still grinning. Doesn't look like it had a tag to begin with, which is daft as hell for such an expensive shoppe.

Merlin sucks in a deep, steadying breath, face tilted up to the sky. He gazes over at Arthur, sunglasses reflecting the blond man.

"… We should come back again sometime," he says suddenly.

Arthur stares in astonishment. Merlin's grinning like a self-righteous git, but he has to admit…

He's _impressed_.

"They probably won't let you in until you've returned your spoils of conquest," Arthur replies dryly, tilting his chin at the glasses. "You've ruined my chances of going back."

They must have been some hours inside, judging by the daylight. The surrounding traffic begins to pick up flow, and more faces appears, as bodies of various height and gender and skin tone weaves by, ignoring and rushing past them on the sidewalk.

Merlin listens, for however briefly, to all of it. Attention drifting to the noises around him, eyes closed behind the dark lenses. Mutters, the scuffing of fact-paced running against gravel, coughs, profanity, car horns and rumbling engines, prayers, quiet and breathless sobs…

A stab of melancholy, of _pity_ , heavy enough to clench up his throat.

(But… there's nothing he can do.)

He lifts the Reiss' bag cradling his things—his less expensive things. Swallowing down his thoughts, and cutting himself off the noise pollution. Arthur's voice helps. Seeing his face light up.

Arthur is hardly worried about being let back into the department. The clothes are excellently tailored, but he isn't about to have a right fit because he couldn't go back somewhere where the air reeks of pretentiousness. Especially if it's directed towards Merlin.

He enjoyed seeing the proud, delighted grin on Merlin's face more than trying on clothes.

Merlin echoes back a grin, though less cockier.

"They'll let us back," he reassures. "I've scared them into liking us—hold this, will you," an offhanded, distracted comment. He slips off his new, aviator sunglasses and prodding them gently but clumsily over the wide, fleshy bridge of Arthur's nose.

As the other man struggles to adjust them, or likely to grasp and process the unexpected intrusion, Merlin takes the distraction and steals Arthur's old clothes from his hands, dumping them into the microfiber, gaudy-looking, shopping bag along with his.

As he hitches the bag up, letting it sling over his shoulder, Merlin's eyes glances over Arthur's face and the sunglasses. Approval not-so-secretly glinting back, slowly forming.

"There, they look better on you."

These aren't normal _glasses_ , Arthur recognises. Merlin familiarised him with _reading glasses_ , and _correctional lenses_ , but… these ones block out the brightness of the sun, don't they?

Arthur is admittedly fascinated by the concept, much like the tint of the stained glass windows found in the castle sanctuary.

"I suppose I'll keep them on, then." He laughs.

"Good."

*

 


	36. Chapter 36

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost 8,000 words for this update! It's been a very rough couple of weeks for me, and the mass shooting happened and members of my community are dead, and I'm trying to find a way to process all of this. My birthday is Saturday and I didn't want to wait that long to update, so I may not post anything then but, I hope this was something that made you happy to read! Any thoughts/comments always appreciated. ♥
> 
> Half of this fic wouldn't exist without [marlena_darling](http://archiveofourown.org/users/marlena_darling/pseuds/marlena_darling) and I wanna say thank you for taking this journey with me and you've been a best friend to me. I love you lots and this is ours.

*

On the way through the city, Merlin asks for directions from a bespectacled, elderly couple at one of the nearby crosswalks. They knew the quaint, small restaurant very well.

(And recommended the veal saltimbocca and focaccia.)

Arthur nearly made fun of him for getting them lost, seeing as the other man was nearly two thousand years and _should_ have known the cities around him. But to be fair, he wouldn't do so well on his own either. Right now, Arthur's on high alert, most of it sensory overload, but _comfortable_. Merlin's close to him, and in high spirits, and that's good enough.

It's easily another ten minutes to locate it. During that time, Merlin glimpses of town workers constructing and stringing out the extravagantly large Christmas decorations. He doesn't point it out to his companion, seeing no reason to as Merlin has no opinion on the matter.

Arthur doesn't even know what _Christmas_ is. And if the other man isn't going to ask… what's the point?

The rustic, stone-textured exterior of the restaurant building appears unflattering, but experience from the couple reveals they had been absolutely _taken_ by hospitality and dining experience. The inside, however, is comfortably dimmed and golden lighting, plush chairs and genuinely smiling faces. And the wafting air of the cooking smells divine.

Arthur slips off the sunglasses off, tossing them into Merlin's bag. A hostess, clad in a black, pencil skirt and a red blouse, approaches them as the entrance doors shut.

"How many will it be this evening?"

As Merlin replies for them, Arthur realises what exactly she means with an inward cringe. It's still difficult learning what to _say_. He follows as she leads them towards a table tucked away next to a large window overlooking the street and the city outside.

There's an odd, not quite melancholy feeling trickling into Arthur's chest as he sits down.

If it had been anyone else, in any other time, such a casual encounter wouldn't have happened after yesterday, despite the easier ending. Arthur spent plenty of moments since waking up reminding himself that he should be mad, or at least keeping Merlin at a distance until he decided where he stood.

But… Arthur is tired of what he _should_ do.

He doesn't want to feel as if he can't trust Merlin, because despite certain events and habits, and the _secrets_ , Merlin is the closest thing to family he has. Before and after his own death. Merlin has always been so much _more_ than that, and now they both have a chance to explore that.

Arthur isn't about to ruin that by holding a grudge.

He takes a slow breath as his eyes scan the _electric_ lights of the cityscape outside the window.

*

They wound a path around a scatter of tables—some occupied with patrons, others littered with crumpled, red-fabric napkins as lonely company. Merlin appreciates the quieter, relaxed atmosphere. Away from the hustle and bustle.

He isn't unaccustomed to either. Quiet or busy. He's more practiced with hiding in plain sight, or deep in familiar, isolated woods.

Merlin favoured _neither_ as well.

The passage of time has been granted to him, of being able to slowly adapt to the world and its major changes. Industry, politics, economics, popular culture, and the rights of human beings. If needed, Merlin easily shapes for any circumstance, accept any fluidity and trickles along with the ever-displacing river.

(Instead of rejecting it, and Merlin came so _close_ long-ago… in his violent, wild grieving of Arthur's passing, clawing his fingers to the nail-beds, scraping the dark, rough earth of the Crystal Cave.)

Immortality opened his eyes, in many ways, but there had came stretches of his own time where Merlin wished to _close_ them. Forever.

There's no such opportunity now. And none he desires. Arthur lives, and Arthur breathes, and smiles—there's unanswered questions lingering.

In retrospective, the trip so far doesn't exhibit disastrous results. Arthur has exactly what he wanted: a new outfit for Merlin that won't potentially embarrass either of them, and manages to find something to satisfy his own fussy preferences. There's relatively less trouble in it all, then say, a "normal" outing would have been in Camelot's era.

Merlin couldn't honestly say he remembers a "peaceful" outing with Arthur, not with memories of roaring bandits chasing after them, or tavern fights, or rogue, fanatical sorcerers seeking vengeance, or Merlin's own unfortunate brand of clumsiness that caused him to fall into a cold stream more than once. Or roll down a hill. Or roll down a hill and nearly be impaled down a rocky gorge or sword.

It could be possible that with all the trouble that heaped on, the _peaceful_ days are here at last. As much as a fanciful thought it is.

Arthur had taken the plush seat across from him, also silently observing their surroundings as well. No tailback from the nearby road, just a steady flow of cars.

Merlin's eyes pull away to briefly gaze over the other man.

Arthur has that look about him. _Excitement_. Very faint. Very well-hidden.

It's a big change from the Arthur days-earlier, uncomfortable with walking down the pavement, staring outright in confusion and distrust. Rushing away from crowds, avoiding eyes with anything and everything. Arthur still has that mild impression of a daft parrot, like back at the faire-grounds, head turning every which way. Not chancing missing a second of mentally cataloging it.

Which is damn encouraging, Merlin adds to his own pile of consideration, unaware of his little, fond smile growing, eyes locked on Arthur's profile. He nearly misses someone clearing their throat.

"—Do you need a few more minutes?"

Reality comes jerking back, and Merlin jerks with it, facing a newcomer. The gentle-featured hostess nowhere to be seen. Their waiter, in similar black and red for uniform, purses his lips in slight amusement, seeming to be doing his best to keep it masked.

Arthur's head bows politely in greeting, but when the visitor first speaks, he's met with silence.

He assumes it mainly to do with the fact that Merlin is too busy staring at him to notice.

Raising an eyebrow, Arthur waits, holding back a knowing smirk. It's so incredibly obvious not just to Arthur, but to the third man as well when Merlin gives a wide-eyed, stammered response.

" _Uh_ -mm." Damn it! There needs to be coherent words coming out of his mouth. "S'fine, just admiring the view," Merlin tries again, flashing a perfunctory smile when the waiter hands them the large, varnished menus. "We'll have some water before deciding."

"Right away, gents."

Merlin awkwardly opens his menu, propping it open and hunching down behind it, staring hard but pointless at the looping, scrawled text.

He could use a dangerously tempting swift half at this point from the alcohol selection. Or sixteen if he's going to be like this all night.

"Is the view of the menu just as nice?" Arthur drawls, sounding a mix of innocent and coy all at once. "You seemed rather distracted."

Oh, _no_. He knew that tiny, condescending smirk on Arthur's expression. He _knew_.

Ohhhh.

Let alone the waiter thinking he's completely mooning over Arthur, but Arthur figuring it out because Merlin was being a divvy? Talk about embarrassing. Maybe not as embarrassing as Arthur catching him in Gwen's dressing cabinet with a whole arm in a blue gown sleeve, but…

To hell with everything, Merlin's entire face burns to the point that he feels it up to the tips of his _ears_. Ugh.

Thankful for the menu blocking him, he furrows his eyebrows wordlessly at the playfulness tone in Arthur's voice.

"M'fine, you're barmy," Merlin says, muttering this, not returning the light-heartedness.

(Alright, yes, he knows he's being difficult… what of it?)

Arthur reaches out with the hand that doesn't open his own menu to prod at Merlin's, pushing it in towards the other man. Perhaps it's childish, but Arthur doesn't really care.

"You're going to bore a hole through it, if you keep staring like that," he observes.

"I have no idea what you're going on about," Merlin replies dismissively, much louder than a mumble. Feeling much more confident, and less flush, he stretches a hand out and smartly whacks the back of Arthur's hand with his fingers.

Looking decidedly unimpressed by any chuckling or halfhearted insult further of a reaction from his companion, Merlin lowers his varnished menu, skimming a lingering hand over some white-scrolling lines. With his other hand, he loosens the now uncomfortable knot to diamond-printed tie.

"Yes, of course," Arthur mutters.

He doesn't seem the least bit offended by the physical, instinctual reprimanding, taking the hand-slap with a warm, laughing grace. It's calm air between them, undisturbed of aggravation or doubt.

The gentle wonder, the calm air needs to stay that way, if it could. If they can manage it.

When Merlin does happen to glance up, eyes flicking to Arthur, he finds the other man's expression to be faintly smiling and relaxed. And in turn, Merlin's own loses the sensation of reservation and tightness.

Arthur can do that so easily to him… feel lighthearted, feel comfortable. And he really does look _brilliant_ , to Merlin. Even in the dimness, with low-lights yellowing already pale hair, eyes softer blue.

Countless people in history tried to paint an exact image of Britain's most famous warlord of ancient folklore—the great Welsh king—the epitome of chivalric romance—the leader of the Knights of Old—the Once and Future King to return when the world truly needed.

Dark eyes, bright eyes, reddish-gold hair, hair darker than night, a beard, long hair, short hair, aged with a milky, weathered face, or scarred along his features from mighty and terrible battles…

They all tried their best—but, as Merlin secretly witnessed in amusement and disdain over centuries, the artist renditions never did get it right. (As it were, they never did about Merlin, either. But he always thought it would bedevil Arthur far more than it did him.)

"What do you want to eat?" Merlin asked blandly, clearing his throat a moment, continuing to stare down. _Not_ at Arthur and his cheekiness. Or thinking about how close their knees are to brushing. "The aubergine parmigina looks good."

"The _what_?" Arthur says, bemusement in his tone. What sort of name is… _whatever it was_?

Most of these meals look like gibberish in Arthur's mind. The names mean nothing to him, the spelling even more odd. Merlin mentioned that this was called _Italian_ , he believes.

Still, it means nothing to him.

Merlin's fingers slowly untangle from his achromatic-hued tie, as he pulls a thoughtful, silent gaze from his companion. And tried not to snicker.

No, he realistically couldn't have expected Arthur to have known what would be included on the restaurant's menu. Or how to gauge what he would want from it. Food changed drastically from how it was prepared in the feudal era, as was the variety of choices now. Reading all of this must have been very overwhelming.

Minding his sympathy, the warlock leans over the table a little more, towards Arthur, keeping his finger pressing to the varnished words as stormy, darker blue eyed stare back down. Arthur's knee collides to the table, rattling it momentarily, and Merlin decides to ignore it in favour of helping.

"How about this then?" His finger remains over one of the dishes. "It's shrimp and scallops, sauteed in white wine, fresh tomatoes, and served with sauteed spinach on top. It comes with rolls and potatoes."

A spark of eagerness arises in Arthur's face, through his eyes first. Merlin's lips upturn.

"It's not herb-crusted caper," he says, murmuring, "but… it's a new age. You might as well try what it has to offer."

Arthur's not quite convinced. How can he be? Then again, he never really _chose_ what he wanted to eat, unless directly asked, or ordered it out of craving. He generally went with what the cooks made, unless feeling particularly picky.

"—Did you need more time deciding?"

Unbothered by the interruption, and sudden presence of their waiter, Merlin smoothly gathers up both menus, meeting a pair of curious, hazel eyes.

"He will have the Gamberie Capesanteal Vino Blanco." The accented words fall in perfect, uncomplicated rhythm. "And I will have the Fettuccine Carrettiera, without the garlic, please." Merlin asks, cheerfully, "Would you recommend the house wine?"

"With what you ordered, absolutely."

"Brilliant, we'll both take a glass." Merlin nods politely, and then lays a hand down on the table, opening his mouth. "And?" he calls the waiter back from turning around, flashing a wry grin. "Bramble."

"Right away."

Arthur's features bloom in mild shock. The accented language Merlin uses is like _honey_. Smooth, fluid, and almost heated. Thinking about it, Arthur probably should not have found it so shocking. Merlin's been around some time. Surely… he's made time to _master_ a few languages.

He tries not to let that sink in too much. It would probably keep his head spinning all night, that Merlin floods with intelligence, _knowledge_ that Arthur has no hope of ever knowing. Now that _he's_ the idiot.

Merlin sinks back to his chair, wordless. He glances at Arthur, and then frowns playfully.

"What, did you think I would ask for cider?"

Within a few minutes, one of the wine glasses, brimming pink liquid, places in front of Merlin. He sips it, not waiting for Arthur to taste his first, enjoying the dry, oaky taste and sharpness of odour.

Busy explaining their orders, Merlin overlooked an opportunity to take in the slack-jawed response to the impeccable usage of Italian language.

(If Merlin _had_ seen it, he likely would have found a subtle way to nudge Arthur about it, and then mentally indexed the response for the immediate future. Future teasing. Future teasing that hopefully ended in more delightfully surprised responses—Arthur's lips, rubbed raw and pink against Merlin's own, jaw loosening with pleased, sharp groans.)

The language was thick, rhythmic and unhurried. As Merlin learned through the eras, it flowed from the tip of your tongue, almost slurring.

Modern century liked to refer to the faintly beautiful and complex language to under the area of "Romantic" language created. But if he had to be honest, Merlin was rather fond of Sicilianu. A regional dialect of the country, but with deeper Mediterranean roots.

During his time wandering, Merlin found the island in its earlier years—a paradise surrounding ultra-blue waters and ultra-blue skies and bright, sweet island flowers. And the people he encountered… did not feared him. The villagers had been entertained and heartened by his abilities. The members of the sovereignty themselves displayed acts of magic.

It _could_ have been home… maybe it could have. But then, Merlin was not prepared to settle, that tiny flame of _hope_ in his chest still burning. Still calling him back to Glastonbury and Avalon's waters.

Settling… it never been an option.

_"This is my favorite tree," she proclaimed, resting a hand against its bark, eyes green as the spring moss. "Promise me we'll come back."_

_Muffled screams of dying agony when the roaring pyre consumed the infected. His nostrils burned with the scent of charring bone and hair._

_He buried her under the same yew tree, and their life together._

Merlin's jaw unclenches, as he fights to clear his mind. Of the phantom senses and ache in his heart and his bright-fogged memories. He swallows the rest of his wine glass, tipping his chin back and letting his eyelids shut. Merlin's fingers tremor visibly a moment, wiping at his upper lip as he stared off at nothing particular.

"With all the time you've spent in the tavern, Merlin…"

The haunting spell broken. The thinly veiled with lighthearted sarcasm.

"And you would _think_ ," Merlin points out, just as casually, but grinning in silent challenge, "that I would have made _mention_ to all those days spent 'in the tavern' in my own private autobiography, hm?"

Arthur's using the tavern comment as a reaction, and counting on it. _Of course,_ at the time Arthur weighed the idea of Merlin _of all people_ staying out all night at the tavern as highly ridiculous. He was far too small and far too chipper in the morning to do so. But then there were those grumpy, passive aggressive mornings Arthur had to deal with that made him consider otherwise.

He knows the truth now, obviously, but that doesn't mean the jokes needed to cease.

Especially now that Arthur can chase that foggy, _miserable_ expression of Merlin's away. It came again; Arthur inspects Merlin after taking his first drink.

"No," Arthur says in retaliation. He shakes his head. "I think even after all these years… you're still in denial. Or perhaps you don't remember enough to write down."

Merlin continued staring, grinning but saying nothing as Arthur does an experimental taste to his own glass of wine. No look of disgust appears.

"Indeed, this is much nicer." Arthur agrees, looking around the dimly lit restaurant.

Arthur's smirk could be so condescending and _irritating_. But it's welcome in these situations, even with the amount of relentless teasing.

He hadn't been sure Arthur would want another glass of wine, or preferred some water, but watches for the nod of approval. Arthur had been limited to water and mead for countless dinners. It's about time to switch things up. Wine with dinner usually is a sophisticated choice.

(Merlin isn't looking to get _drunk_ before the night is over, and it's highly unlikely he could if he desired. It would take several more Brambles, and perhaps a Strongbow.)

In fact, Merlin doesn't want Arthur to feel intimidated or bored.

Not on their… _first date_ , dear gods and stars above them all—like _teenagers_. Painfully over-aged teenagers.

The realisation still staggers Merlin's contemplation, and he blinks, startled when a new glass is placed in front of him.

"Here's your Bramble," the waiter says, taking up the empty wine glass. "Your food should be served in a couple more minutes. Anything else?"

After a moment, Merlin nods to his old wine glass.

"Another, cheers," he mumbles, not glancing up. "And for him, too."

The gin in his drink toes the line of _very_ strong, nestled in the creme liquor and lemon juice. The sugar syrup helps placid its taste.

A bit of alcohol keeps Merlin from being clouded by emotions, or the suffocation of memories.

"Must feel nice, eh?" he speaks up, glancing at Arthur, lips twisting together but not in pain or disappointment. "Not having your meals cooked in the… bleedin' woods, or by someone as anal-retentive in the whole of Camelot as the head cook." Merlin snorts, amused. "Did you ever know her name? Gwen was constantly on about some woman named 'Audrey', and the seasoned pork, but I never got around to knowing it. Half the time the old codger looked at me like I was dodgy."

Arthur shifts in his seat, as he recalls the horror stories he heard from just about everyone in his company about the cook.

"Never knew the cook's name. I only knew she threatened to cut my knight's fingers off more than once. Seemed like a terrible woman." Arthur's eyes dart back to Merlin, a eyebrow raising coyly. "But I'm sure you have more _experience_. You weren't her favorite for good reason, from what I heard."

"She thought I was nicking food," Merlin explains, taking in the amused glint of Arthur's eyes, and chuckling. "Granted, I took a dumpling once. _Once_."

He holds up a single finger, face defensive. Merlin has a long drink of his sugary gin, lips smacking.

"I had been doing _your_ chores, and then Gaius' chores and collecting herbs, and couldn't find the time to slow down and cook something, so I just… did."

A shrug.

"Of course, I got caught," Merlin recalls, eyes narrowing. "She threatened to have me strung up by my ears. But then, Lancelot got there first and y'know, I think she fancied him…" A faint glow of fondness in Merlin's eyes at the mention of an old friend. "In any case, he saved my arse from the ladle and her striking arm."

There had been a moment, no matter how brief, that Arthur wondered if the subject would draw the heaviness back into Merlin's eyes.

They managed a few successful conversations of the past, including the night previous, but Arthur treads carefully. He had to relearn the triggers, the steps that would not make the floor cave beneath his feet. As much as Merlin is still himself, there's a _complex_ puzzle underneath. Arthur is more than aware of that.

To be able to talk so easily about the past. With someone who understands it better than most.

The _only_ person who understands.

Like how Arthur's head tilts, or how he leans on an open hand. The blond man chuckles lightly as Merlin recounts everything and grins with the glimmer of memories. And that's what they are— _glimmers_ of daylight, fleeting in nature, wonderful and sharp and so very out-of-reach. To both of them.

Talking about Lancelot leaves Merlin with a deep-pinching but joyful ache in his heart.

He really had the noblest of them all. Brave and true. Lancelot known Merlin perhaps more than he knew _himself_. That uncanny ability—empathising with others, gentle and firm in his speech and manner. Lancelot had always been able to search out the trouble in Merlin's expression and thoughts, and offer calm insight, advice. The most valuable counsel as a friend Merlin could have asked for.

It would have been hard to not have fallen in love with that man and knight. Merlin had not blamed Guinevere for her infatuation.

"Noble Lancelot, to the rescue again," Arthur muses, finishing off the rest of his wine glass as he resists a dry chuckle. That's a tale as old as time. Even for Merlin. Even for _him_. "Good thing. Your fragile body couldn't handle much of a beating."

At the _fragile_ comment, though offhanded, Merlin laughs into his drink, perhaps a little too hard and a little too obviously.

He asks quietly, blue eyes crinkling, "Is that a promise for later?" Face revealing nothing but his grin and intrigue in how Merlin's eyebrows curve slightly up. "Because, I can assure you, I'm a lot stronger than I look."

Just as Merlin puts up his drink again, mouth tingling for it, the waiter returns with a full tray and their plates.

"Here you are, gents." Arthur's new wineglass set down by the old one being snatched up.

Arthur's lips ghost into a smile.

What Merlin meant didn't register until after the food arrived. The mental image it offered proves to be the _new_ distraction. Merlin claims to be _stronger_ than he looks, and the invitation to test that out is made quite clear. He would very much like to _continue_ this discussion further, but later.

His plate smells delicious, and it's unlike anything had ever seen. _Pasta_ and _shrimp_ in a heavy sauce. Arthur hesitates, picking up his fork.

"Excellent," Merlin says, eyeing his own steaming food with longing.

"Anything else for you?"

"I think we're sorted, thank you."

The heartiness of the fettuccine hits Merlin's tastebuds immediately, flaring the dragging hunger.

He swirls the noodles around his fork, though inelegantly, taking another mouthful and humming his pleasure. He chances a quick look at Arthur at the same moment, cheeks full.

The waiter sweeps away, a speck of black and red fabric in the dim, pale yellow lighting, and Merlin watches up through his eyelashes as Arthur lifts a utensil and poked at his food. It isn't _poisonous_ , for god's sake. Merlin really isn't going play royal taste-tester—bugger on old tradition.

Arthur takes the plunge himself, scooping it onto his fork before spearing a piece of shrimp. The moment he had it in his mouth, Arthur is _thankful_.

"You like it?" Merlin nods, encouraged. "Good. Thought so."

He gives a hum of approval, deciding not to roll his eyes at the obvious pride in Merlin's voice. He's right, in any matter—the food is delicious.

The long silence that follows between them while eating is anything but suffocating, or difficult to bear.

Out in the Darkling Woods, while on ceremonial hunts or some other rubbish excuse Arthur had about spending a few nights in the cold and wet (when Merlin could have enjoyed the shelter and warmth of Gaius' tiny hearth in his workshop)—there were dinners like this. Enjoying the silence and company. The close proximity of someone you trusted. Though, Merlin suspected, Arthur rather enjoyed the 'Merlin not gabbering on like a fool' bit.

The restaurant provides background noise, soft and unintruding. Silverware clanking, voices whispering, money setting down on tables.

Somehow, their legs gravitate closer, Arthur's knee pressing with steady weight to Merlin's leg. But, he's not about to point it out to Arthur, to risk losing the pleasant sensation.

And then, the background noise grows heavy, more insistent and louder.

A woman crying out.

Merlin's head whips around, hearing gasps.

A girl, no more than a child, lying motionless to the carpeted floor. The woman who must have cried out goes to her knees, hovering over her, shaking the girl's shoulders violently. A burst of instinctive energy draws Merlin from sitting, thinking of nothing else as he joins the woman, slipping off his black suit-jacket quickly.

"What happened?"

"She was eating, s—she just started coughing and fell over!" The woman's eyes teary and blown wide. "I'm just her nanny, I— _Alice_!"

Merlin grips onto her wrist tightly, warningly, as she reaches for the girl once more and likely to shake her and possibly do more harm.

"Stop, please." He lets go, hand raising up as her eyes glare. "Don't move her," Merlin explains, placidly. "If she starts seizing, she'll need the space we can give her. Do you know if she has a history of fainting?"

"I've called for an ambulance!" The hostess from earlier pipes up, hand knuckling to her mobile. He nods, thanking her.

A group of the restaurant patrons are beginning to crowd, and need to _sod off_.

Before Arthur recognises what happened, he meets gazes with Merlin's empty chair. He sees Merlin disappear into the crowd and is on his feet immediately— _what was he to do_?

A pulse. Merlin's fingers search for it, on the girl's neck. Shallow breathing.

"Who the bloody hell are _you_?" the nanny demands, already letting her panic overcome her and make her angry.

"My name is Leon Uhas."

_A lie._

"I'm a registered EMT."

Not really _a lie_. He hasn't been on-duty with the program in twenty-some years.

"I just want to help her."

Absolutely _not a lie_.

The woman's anger deflates. Her eyes blinking rapidly, a tear rolling. "Her mum said she had asthma, b-but—"

A weak cough. The girl's breathing deepens, though rattling. Merlin stares down as her eyes flutter open, dazed. "Your nanny is here with me, love," he tells her, smiling brightly, fingertips touching the top of her head kindly. "My name is Leon. Can you tell me your name?"

"Alice," comes a meek, breathy whisper.

"That's a beautiful name. Do you know where you are?" As the girl recites back everything correctly, including the year and her home address and her favorite animal, Merlin poises the next question, fingers stroking absently, "Are you taking any medicine? An inhaler?"

The woman then scrambles for her purse sitting in her own booth, face reddening, "Oh, christ. I didn't even _think_ —"

"It's fine. It's better to be calm. Do you need your inhaler, Alice?" The girl shakes her head, still lying flat on her back to the carpet. "Has anything ever happened like this before?" Another head-shake.

Merlin folds his suit-jacket in his hands, into a puffy square. "I'm going to slide this behind your neck, tell me if it hurts." With no compliant, Alice remains unmoved, eyes clearing from the earlier daze, but still fearful. "That's better, isn't it?" he asks her, his smile never wavering.

Arthur has no idea what the crisis is, or how to handle it. From the appearance of it, something's wrong with the girl. But it's not wound he knows how to treat.

Merlin, on the other hand, seems be the only one who does understand.

That settles that, then.

He hustles over to the busy, murmuring gathering, looking for Merlin on the ground before touching a firm hand on the shoulder of the women to his left. She starts by the action, but doesn't protest at the concerned look in his eyes.

"Give them some space. Crowding them will only make it more difficult for help to come," Arthur says. "Tell everyone else to do the same."

Between the two of them, most of the crowd retreats by the time Arthur finally looks back at Merlin. When he does, Merlin stares up. Arthur pauses, small frown on his lips as he silently questions _what's going on_ , but when he's gestured forward, Arthur obeys.

"The ambulance is a couple minutes away."

The hostess spoke up, but Merlin's eyes were on Arthur, confused but level-headed.

"Arthur, can you give me your jacket?" Merlin murmurs up to him, with stormy blue eyes wordlessly thanking him for being there, but also for being out of the way. Arthur's jacket lands into his grasp. He allows the nanny to spread the thick, expensive jacket over the girl's front.

Merlin catches the girl's eyes peering at his king, uncertain by the new face.

"This is my friend, Arthur," he says, cheerfully. "He's a cabbagehead." Finally, a genuine, child-like smile creases her lips. "King of cabbageheads. No unicorns or fairies, just stinky old cabbages."

From behind him, he's sure Arthur was rolling his eyes at him.

"And Leon here is our court jester." he replies, smirking and wrinkling his nose. "Makes the cabbages laugh."

The scene becomes more hectic, as the emergency personnel stomp in, and ask them questions and ask everyone else.

But the girl is going to be _alright_.

Merlin blocks the rest of it, uninterested in any stares or inquiring. He just wants to go back to his table now, and with Arthur, and finish his meal.

He stares contemplatively out the window, as the flashing lights of the ambulance fade off, elbows propped up and hands bunched up, His backs of his thumbs push up against Merlin's closed mouth.

"She had a reaction to a food allergy, I know it," he mumbles, to no-one in particular. The street lights flick on, glowing ugly. Merlin's shoulders, bare of his jacket, constrain, and then relax.

"You alright?" Merlin addresses the other man, eyes still on the window.

Arthur only touches the glass of water brought for him at some point as he stares at Merlin. The other man is distant, eyes on the window with the coloured lights flashing against his skin. When he speaks up monotonously, Arthur strains to hear him,.

"Fine," he answers— _because it's true._ "Are you?"

Arthur's decision to go with "fine" as an answer holds no scathing nature in it. Merlin believes him wholeheartedly. (A fainting little girl has not been the worst thing either of them had seen.)

Sun-gold fingers tap quietly to the sides of the drinking glass to Arthur's reach. He wants to know how Merlin's doing, in turn.

For the growing, intensifying silence between them to rupture.

Arthur's eyes have been on him the whole time, surveying him with just a hint of bared concern. For some reason, Merlin feels a weak prickle of scorn overtake him.

"I'm used to it," he says, hands lowering, his own blue eyes still on the window. Very difficult to ignore the weighed tone in Merlin's voice, things unspoken, sloshing just below the surface.

"I can… y'know," Merlin then does meet Arthur's eyes, expression serious but lacking the previous heaviness, "I can teach you all this. How to handle an emergency situation on your own. How to take care of the victim. It's a start to understanding the modern age and what to do."

Arthur feels the small curl of tension in his chest vanish.

Merlin lifts his newest wine glass, happening to have asked for the darker, bolder taste of the red wine. "I suppose you _are_ happening to live with a physician who got his doctorate at least…" Merlin stares off at an unnamed spot in his vision, fingers dancing as he counts, "twenty odd bloody times. I've lost track."

He may not know what a doctorate is, or why Merlin got it _twenty or so_ times, but Arthur grasps what he's really saying. Merlin's skilled, and Arthur has no doubt of that in his mind. What's better is Merlin offers to help him _learn_. That, Arthur accepts.

"I guess you're the right man for the job, then," he responds, mouth curling to a smile as Arthur drinks his water.

That does the trick. Lightening the mood.

Merlin feels better after a laugh. Feels _lighter_.

His head is feeling lighter too, as well as beginning to haze. Presumable since now the bevvys at their table are on the house. (He refused any offers for the meals, intending on using that gift certificate, but eventually caved on the drinks from the manager.)

He loses track of the hours as well. The sun dips behind the horizon.

Conversation dwindles from an introductory course to Britain's early history and political system and trying to explain to Arthur famous inventors like Vladmir Barmin and Maurice Hilleman… seeing as the more alcohol effects Merlin, the more babbling he's apt to do.

Arthur does most of the listening, feeling all too much like the child prince learning of the world outside his castle walls.

Merlin's hands cradle a large glass of delightfully sweet blueberry vodka and lime cordial.

The drinks may cloud his actual understanding, though. They haven't stopped coming since the owner insisted on them being without charge. Arthur certainly hadn't complained. Merlin's starting to _glow_ faintly in the lighting of the room.

The restaurant has wound down from the earlier activity—back to the soft, muted echoes of silverware and money being placed down and whispers. The hostess returns Arthur's jacket, zipped in her violet-colored, puffy coat and on her way out from her shift.

A couple, a man and a woman, peck lips under some mistletoe beneath the arch leading to the restrooms.

Merlin catches the sight of one of the staff members balanced on a metal step-stool, making a dangerous game of her whirring staple gun and an already lit-up string of neon green and red lights.

"Fairy lights," Merlin observes aloud, swallowing a mouthful of his drink. At the odd look from his companion, Merlin makes a not-so-handsome face at him.

Arthur's eyes blearily trail to the lights being hung. _Fairy lights_.

What else would they have come up with? He's brought back to attention by Merlin's mumbling.

"What?" Arthur asks, realising it takes a moment to get the simple word out.

"Not _rea_ l fairies… duffer," Merlin says, using the insult affectionately. Maybe. It's getting harder to consciously limit the amount of emotion in his voice. And everything is still hazy around the corners. Merlin stares down at his very, very blue glass.

"Think they're tryin'a get me pissed," comes another noteworthy observation, a little more murmury and slower than the last. Is Arthur pissed, too? How much has he had compared to Merlin?

His fingers snatch up his unfolded jacket. Merlin says, getting up with relative steadiness to his equilibrium, "Should… get some air."

He doesn't plan on leaving Arthur out of the sudden impulse-driven equation.

Merlin grasps slippery-wet from the condensation on his glass to Arthur's wrist, starting to pull him from the seat. When he isn't getting the proper response he wants—namely, Arthur _following_ —Merlin complains, eyebrows furrowed, "Air. Breathing. Outside." Each word punctuates with a firm tug on Arthur's hand. " _Gooo_."

His lips draw into an indignant frown, muttering about impatience, but Arthur finally heaves himself towards the door and pushes his way outside.

The chill of the air is a sharp contrast to the warmth of the indoors. Arthur's sharp breath producing a stream of fog in front of his face. He unfolds the jacket from over his arm and manages to get it on, looking over at his companion.

He very well isn't just going to stand here in the cold. The streets are lit up, bright from the cars passing and the decorative lights laced around _lamps_. It's strangely beautiful, in a way. Reminds him of riding up to the castle on festival nights.

"C'mon," Arthur mutters to Merlin, a hand coming up to guide him in the same direction. Instead of the shoulder like intended, it misses and presses itself to Merlin's lower back. Arthur doesn't bother correcting it; he still can very well shove him forward like that.

Several people wave on the way out, and Merlin waves back with a bright, dopey expression.

The thick padding of his black suit-jacket will be useful for the weather, seeing as the bitter cold of winter approaches quickly. But Merlin isn't feeling confident in his ability to get it on without stumbling about, or stumbling into the passerbys on the sidewalk.

And he doesn't feel _that_ cold anyway, even if everyone else is in their mitts and hats and fur-lined coats. The alcohol coursing through his system keeps him a touch above giddy and shiver-free.

Going along with the sincere and unfounded euphoria, rising steadily, Merlin openly meet eyes with at a few groups of strangers cutting around he and Arthur, grinning in their direction and swiveling his head around to keep them in his line-of-sight. Most of them ignore him, and how ridiculous he may have seems trying to catch their eye. But a group of young women in uni shirts rake their gazes over him and smile back, curiously. Whispering to each other and laughing, their cheeks reddened by the exposure of the wind's chill.

And then he jolts in place, blinking dazedly and looking away, Arthur's hand unexpectedly smacking into his lower back.

"Oi," Merlin complains, eyes narrowing, but reacting no more than that. The hand does not removed itself, and presses warmly… it's not that the closeness is _unwelcome_. But, sheesh, Arthur doesn't need to _strike_ him or anything to get Merlin walking down the street.

Nevertheless, the warlock silently does as the hand commands, stepping on forward. Arthur joins him, walking at his side towards the intersection of the avenue. His magic tingles in the familiarity of Arthur's heat just out of reach. Towards the town square, where it appears to be far busier with more faces and more cars, Merlin gets a decent look at the earlier decorations being string up.

Colorfully-lit, fake wreaths and garlands high above, wrapped around the streetlights and also high above the actual roads, gently swaying.

"Why are there decorations going up?" Arthur questions, eyes roaming. "Some sort of festival?"

Arthur's voice drifts in Merlin's hearing. A festival?—oh, right.

" _Christmas_!" he says, loudly. Perhaps a bit too grinny and a little too enthusiastically. Not stopping their aimless wandering, Merlin explains, head bobbing, "Christmas is… when you are happy." Blue eyes fond. "And you give presents to other people because you like them. Loads."

_Christmas?_

That's the answer Arthur receives loudly from Merlin, bright and smiling as he does so. Arthur looks over at him in mild apprehension, the exuberance catching his attention as he waits for further explanation. What he gets is… vague.

Arthur nods, the motion heavy. So they hang decorations on _Christmas_ because you give others _gifts_? That hardly makes sense. Yet, he doesn't questioning it.

(He's just glad Merlin is otherwise distracted when he stumbles over a curb. Arthur collects himself quickly, of course, pressing down the front of his jacket to smooth it, more upright as he sways. Bloody bump, coming out of nowhere.)

There's music playing faintly from somewhere further off, perhaps one of the buildings, and Arthur makes out the sound of bells along with a harmonious tune and voices singing along. Whatever it is, there's a cheerfulness Arthur doesn't understand.

But, it's mildly infectious.

"And you're not a _prat_ on Christmas," Merlin adds, frowning and poking Arthur's shoulder sternly, with his hand not gripping to his jacket. As if Arthur has already broke the imaginary rules. "You wear sweaters and go caroling and… drink—"

A burst of lukewarm water hits Merlin directly under his chin, jetting into the air and splashing him.

Everywhere around him, the smooth, dark, paneled ground erupts in spurts of water coloured by purples and blues and reds. He chokes out a breath, wiping off his dripping face and the urge to laugh—embarrassed and confused—tickles at the back of his throat.

From beside him, Arthur looks equally sodden. At the look on his face, Merlin does laugh, hiccuping through it and covering his mouth.

Arthur sputters, only getting the common sense to step back after a few moments of shock. Now with water dripping from his eyelashes and chin, chilled like ice against the air until he raises a hand to wipe it away.

" _What_ —" he mutters, eyes looking around and then to Merlin.

He can't help it. The laughter escaping Merlin grows hoarse and breathless, interrupted periodically by a stray, gasping hiccup.

Arthur's eyes slit, but despite himself a tight smile forms on his lips.

They are complete _dunces_. It's early, freezing December, without their jackets, and they are standing inside a nighttime ground fountain. Lit by the glow-casts of neon blues and greens and oranges.

Water, slowly growing colder against Merlin's heated skin, courses from his hair. Trickling down the sides of his face and the back of his neck. More water, lukewarm and clean, as the installed system blasts it in an automated pattern, raining down on them.

He's sure they had attracted some degree of attention.

Arthur's wet, shadowed expression, lacking chagrin or any palpable displeasure, blossoms into something wonderfully familiar. Something born of genuine feeling, of a mad, defiant excitement.

The confusion is there. Perhaps embarrassment. Merlin feels the same. But he's also _happy_ … happy. The very word feels thick and knotty against Merlin's tongue of ages. There… simply has not been a reason to be. Not in isolation, not in distancing himself or reveling in an ugly, gray forever-world without sunlight. Not for a good, long time.

Happiness and laughter. They come so easily now.

And the other man is laughing, too. Grinning stupidly big, nearly identical to Merlin. Reaching out to touch, large fingers of one hand scooping Merlin's bangs and combing the mop away, out of Merlin's eyes.

The last of the hiccups die inside the warlock's throat, strangled out of existence when Arthur's hand slide over his cheek briefly. Without reason: irresistible and numbing, that human-warmth.

Merlin turns for it, lips scraping the edge of Arthur's palm.

"You're a soaking mess," Arthur scolds, quietly.

"Better than you," he replies, voice croaking, eyes flicking back to Arthur's own. Deja vu softly whispering a memory, but through an unmoved, glass door. "Look like a drowned rat."

_A beautiful one._

Unbeknownst to him, it leaves clinging to Merlin's lips, reverberating to life.

The memory shines brighter. Arthur and his yellow hair dampened. Feudal-era armor strapped over broken, heavy mail. Arthur came back to the world like this: a cleansing layer of water to his strong-boned features and with a tremble to his bones. This time, without fear of the unpredictability, and having embraced the moment.

They are standing once again on the brink of something _changing_.

And a singular question, floating hazy, rushed out for a claiming:

"Go?"

( _Home._ )

Perhaps if he glanced around to the odd glances their way as strangers walked by, Arthur probably would have guessed that they weren't supposed to be standing there.

Then again, it wasn't as if he actually _cared_.

Merlin just called him _beautiful_.

Part of him, shrinking further away by the day, wants to joke. To tease him. Instead, Arthur's grin softens, eyes flickering over Merlin's face.

"Let's go then."

*

 


	37. Chapter 37

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUYS, WE HIT 900 KUDOS. THAT'S BLOWING MY GODDAMN MIND. And!!! AND being inches from 25k views, and THIS CHAPTER HOLDS UP THE PROMISE OF EXPLICIT. SO ENJOY THAT. All of you readers and reviewers have been amazing, and so thoughtful and kind, and there isn't enough love in the world I can send you so ilysm and I'm so happy you are here! :) I'mmmmmm aaaaaah ♥♥ thank youuuuuuuuuuu
> 
> Half of this fic wouldn't exist without [marlena_darling](http://archiveofourown.org/users/marlena_darling/pseuds/marlena_darling) and I wanna say thank you for taking this journey with me and you've been a best friend to me. I love you lots and this is ours.

*

Time blends together. The amount of grinning done, the chill.

When they arrive to the landing of the bus, Merlin's stomach leaps. His vision swims once or twice. Arthur's warmth no longer out of reach. He's sitting down with him in a double-seat, murmuring, their fingers hovering each other's.

Merlin's wet jacket slaps against his leg when his feet find the soil. The earth sighs beneath him, and his magic echoes it faintly.

He watches the fluorescent and roaring bus fade into a pinprick of light.

Arthur tugs his own jacket tighter, now slightly warmer since it dried during the bus ride He keeps close, hand grazing against Merlin's as he meets his eyes. "Come on, Merlin," Arthur tells him, voice no longer faintly slurring. "I want to get back."

Yes. _Yes_ , Merlin does, too.

The afternoon sun has long since fell behind the horizon. Darkness within the canopied woods creeping along, more difficult to navigate. Merlin could maneuver them blind-folded.

However now, he doesn't feel very navigation-worthy.

The instinct, roiling and warming, roots and flares deep inside him. Pushes upwards.

An orb of pale blue, swirling luminescence emerges from the center of Merlin's upturned palm, widening in size. It bobs gently mid-air above their heads, and then slowly weaves a path. Somewhere, like another memory but sluggish and muffled.

Merlin follows it, rooted to the orb just as deeply as it is to him. He grabs onto Arthur's hand, not just for stability, but to guide as well.

The journey takes—longer? _Or was it shorter?_ —than it normally does.

There's very little to question when everything feels like it was clicking together, bits and bots melding and shaping into perfect arrangement.

Merlin's sheltered, little nook of a cottage appears well-lit inside, swimming in the incandescence of the already flickering candlelight, and accompanied by the lone glow of a desk lamp from across the parlour he and Arthur currently stand in, breathing loudly.

The orb dispersed itself by the time they step inside the rune-carved gate, its protective magic humming and welcoming him.

An explanation for the hearth inside the cottage already flame-hot does not matter particularly. Or how the big, wood door unlatches. As soon as the waves of indoor heat register, Merlin's teeth chatter. He thinks he hears Arthur's being as noisy as his.

Arthur doesn't even blink.

His footsteps are heavy but his expression _light_ , pleasant as he looks over at Merlin. Their hands still clasped, but neither an attempt to drop them until Merlin does. That's Arthur's cue to try to tug off his damp jacket.

Arthur's shoulders roll, slow in pace as he jerks it back, but his eyes are on Merlin contemplatively as he does.

Merlin shivers, hair drippy, but smiling broadly at his companion.

" _Freezing_ ," he murmurs, rubbing at the length of his arms. Something, anything to gain feeling back in them.

They are here. He and Arthur. They are ancients taking in the young air surrounding them and expelling it, shivering and gladdened to the presence of each other. Miles of warmth and bare, downy skin unexplored within the confines of waterlogged, expensive fabric.

As Merlin remains still, unmoved from standing near the hearth, the other man busies himself, shedding his jacket. Decreased space between them.

Arthur finally manages to shake the top layer off his wrist, dropping it on the back of the couch before coming forward. His gaze trails down Merlin, taking in the brightness of his expression contrasting with the dark blue of Merlin's eyes in the firelight. Arthur is starting to believe the compliment of _beautiful_ has been given to the wrong man.

"You'll need to get out of those clothes, then," Arthur's voice low, contemplative, but not fully innocent in meaning. _That's_ for Merlin to interpret. "You'll catch a cold."

But Arthur never looks away, not even for a moment. He studies Merlin like a painter would an empty canvas, filling in the blanks with his mind's eye. Imagining what _can_ be.

Merlin only hopes what Arthur can see, all those the tiny, infinite spaces are worth the effort.

He quietly appreciates the new heat of Arthur's hands, following the demonstration and rubbing Merlin's upper arms instead. Unashamed of this closeness. Merlin's own fingers decide to rub themselves together, summoning life to them, distracting him.

He shakes his head, grinning and chuckling amused to himself, face lowered. It isn't the worst come-on line Merlin's heard.

(Of course Arthur's meaning isn't entirely innocent; despite what others accused of him during Camelot's time, Merlin is no fool.)

Stormy blue eyes gaze back up, fuzzy and dancing, as they crinkle at the corners with the carefree grin.

Merlin asks, separating his hands and lifting them, "Are you offering to sully your hands with peasant duties, for me?" Pale, spindly fingers drift into Arthur's space, not fumbling but expertly unknotting the red-dotted tie to Arthur's neck in seconds. Dragging the patterned material free the wrinkled, dress shirt-collar.

"I believe… I'm the only person here qualified for that."

Arthur's true laughter often rang out high-pitched, cracked and full of energy. This laughter is rumbling deep from his core, soft and growing muffled where their lips meet, crashing and needy.

A stirring of that same need overtakes Merlin's chest. He wants to _feel_ , ingrain the sensation desperately. But force his movements slow, nails catching to the pearly, translucent buttons on the white dress-shirt. The kiss clumsy, and tastes like the strong, oaky wine. Then sugar-laced and electric like Merlin's vodka.

Arthur's lips are thin, stretched around Merlin's tongue that probes against his teeth.

He's swept into it, the touch and the pure sense of need. They need this. It's been a long time coming, Arthur reacts with the same urgency.

Lips sliding against each other, shaky breathing as Arthur's fingers rake up into dark hair. He keeps his head angled, trying to find the best way to experience it all. Merlin's mouth sweet, warm like the previous burn of alcohol in his veins, and Arthur is suddenly feeling hot all over. A ledger of noise, too low to be a whine.

But unable to trace the source, Merlin swallows down a groan, eyes closed. His fingers piecing apart the buttons leading down Arthur's sternum. Too _slow_.

The impulse ensnares him, and Merlin's fingers _tear_ apart, soundly ripping Arthur's shirt the rest of the way, gliding his hands eagerly to gold skin.

Arthur's breath hitches in his throat, eyes opening with a start as long, chilled fingers splay against his skin.

 _Oh_.

Arthur doesn't know what to do with the sudden surge of appreciation that overwhelms him, his thoughts swirling. Except that was: incredibly, _infuriatingly_ attractive.

But, Merlin doesn't take Arthur's silence as dismissive. He frisks apart his clothes, with less professionalism and self-control than the majority of the years they knew each other.

Merlin's thought process doesn't particularly care for rubbish as 'control'. At least, not in its usual meaning. He sat in the backdrop of history, of his own cursed, doomed existence, exercising restraint and humility and pretending to not _care_.

Patience and him are _old_ friends.

The scorching quality of their kiss is something Merlin wants to get lost into, not remembering any comparison, not any ill emotion. He presses in a bit harder, lips beginning to ache under the pressure.

Arthur's fingers knot to his dampened hair, brushing Merlin's scalp occasionally and sending tingles down his spine. The other man's presence crowds him, as soon as the now ruined, deep red button-up is rucked off Arthur's shoulders.

He's… dark eyes, the faint scent of perspiration and clean water. Not the murkiness of the algae-covered lake. Merlin can trace the ingredients of Arthur's meal, of his bevvys, cataloging the heaviness.

A sharp, but careful, tug on the diamond-patterned tie to Merlin's neck. Arthur's fingers tugging it. His mind blanks out almost instantly, overcome by a shot of primal _urge_.

The only thing registering: Arthur and… _yes_.

The warlock repeats the word, softly, ending it with a tinier groan. A flare of yellow tinging around blue irises, melting away as quickly as it appears. His magic sweeps out, hovering but doing no more than that.

A little noise of surprise, almost questioning, and Merlin goes with it, didn't move out of it as Arthur's mouth collides to his again. A warm tongue sliding gently between his lips. Merlin hums into it, parting them lazily and letting Arthur lick his way inside, messy and eager. A coil of arousal twines in Merlin's gut, sinking down, and trembling his breath.

Merlin's thumbs stroke along the jaw in front of him, as he holds Arthur's face to him, feeling a light dusting of stubble on his skin.

He pushes Merlin back into the wall, leading him. The wall smacks into his back, and Merlin pays no mind to it. Even as Arthur's leg presses to his hip, securing him in place. His body sags, taking off weight and Merlin's head tilting back, breaking lip contact.

" _God_ …" he mumbles out slowly, eyes lidded before shutting and gazing at Arthur with honest appreciation. A smile blossoming.

This is really happening. Not a dream. A good one. Even if things do spun a little, and Merlin needs a blink a few times to clear his vision.

While not the first time they kissed, even the first time they did so against the wall, this is the first time _desire_ has them so completely. Arthur plans to let it continue that way.

And, lord have mercy, _has_ it. Merlin's weight falls onto Arthur's leg. Reluctantly, Arthur lets the kiss to break, losing the sensation of swollen pink lips. Arthur chuckles faintly, but the noise clipped and tinged with impatience. He doesn't want to stop, not _now_. Not to just sit there and be stared at.

A mutter of ' _kiss me_ ' and Merlin grins wolfishly, pushing the side of his thumb against Arthur's mouth.

"Earn it," he responded, cheeky. His eyes _radiant_ in colour.

The hand on Arthur's side, clutching for support, loosens. Slides towards the muscles on the blond man's abdomen, and then heads lower.

There's no need for ceremony. Merlin's hand presses against the clothed mound in Arthur's trousers, long fingers curling for a small, easy squeeze. At the same moment, Merlin quickly moves to dart his tongue under Arthur's ear, whispering, " _I don't read minds_. You have to tell me what you want."

How could one man be so endearing, but so incredibly _impossible_ at the same time?

Arthur's spine feels like wildfire. Arthur's jaw tightening. His knees suddenly go weak, and all he wants is to give in and pull the remaining clothes off. A strained groan erupts from his throat, and Arthur turns his head, pressing his mouth to Merlin's fingers. "What I want?"

"I _want_ you." he murmurs, low and obvious, his lips skimming the underside of Merlin's jaw. "All of you. Everywhere. Mostly I want you out of your _bloody trousers_."

He can't help it—Arthur looked so _promising_ like this. Mildly irritated in expression but golden skin tainted with color deep flushing. Blond hair tousled and scraped by Merlin's wandering fingers, still wet.

They both aren't exactly in the state of the mind and body to draw things out and savour it. Not like a filmy, halcyon arc of rapturous touch. The weight of Arthur's cock in his trousers is dense and grounding, heavy against Merlin's palm. His mouth numb like it's sore, pink and stinging, edging pleasurable.

It would seem unwise to devil Arthur like this… but since when did Merlin get into the habit of _listening_ to something daft like that? Deviling Arthur had been one of the sole parts—and need he add, a very therapeutic _privilege_ —of his duties as a manservant.

Merlin flashes a set of teeth in his next coy smile, but hidden under Arthur's chin when he hears Arthur groan audibly, jetting torrents of smoldering, lustful heat into Merlin's bloodstream. The vibrations clearly felt where muscles go taut, jerking in place.

He would have Arthur like this, whole bones and thick, ridged muscles, noises, climbing him, leaving marks, sucking Arthur down his throat, tasting freshly accumulated sweat and the irresistible musk of sex. Press open-mouth, gentle kisses to each strange constellation of Arthur's healed injuries.

Hold him, memorize him all over again, take.

 _Be_ taken.

The very imaginings cut a loud, rasping breath out of Merlin, but not to the effect of Arthur's lips wrapping one of his digits. Grazing against the soft, round tender of Merlin's thumb, and around the nail. His eyes widen, gazing at Arthur's profile in stark, dazed amazement.

This wasn't the first time someone had— _no_.

There would be no comparisons. Not to any human soul Merlin known with lecherous intent, abandoned guilt and _himself_ for the desires of physicality.

Arthur deserves honesty, in every aspect Merlin gives willingly.

_"I want you."_

Merlin's hand between them tenses, halting any rhythm.

_"All of you."_

(He deserves better.)

A bit of drool gleams on Merlin's pale thumb, as Arthur finally lets it free, and whispers to him, lips sliding across the warlock's jaw and sending his heart fluttering hard to his ribcage.

He needs this. He hopes they both do. Merlin's palm applies steady pressure to Arthur's cock, not longer teasing.

"…'ve no idea," he mumbles out, snatching Arthur's other hand and guiding to his own, letting him become familiar with the sensation before grinding a little, "how badly," Merlin drops his head towards Arthur's bare shoulder, closing his eyes, shuddering, "…wanted this, _nn_ —couldn't have you."

The first touch is a shock through Arthur's body, the surrealism finally charged into reality. Arthur soaks it in, Merlin's hips rolling into his hand. He makes it easier, fingers outlining Merlin's prick.

"Yes, you can," he breathes out before Arthur realises it, fiercely wanting to be done with the word _couldn't_. There's no need for it now.

Hands releasing. Scrabbling for belts.

At some point, in the haze and murk of thoughts, Merlin knows he's undoing his own. Feels Arthur's fingers straying to his hips, and his feet sloppily kicking off his Docs.

Groping along through the hallway.

Arthur's mouth back to his, nearly swallowing down his tongue. Merlin's hip painfully slamming to the door-frame of the bedroom. Someone bumping the door shut.

Merlin's ears burns with the whisper of Arthur's consent verging on determination and an impossible measure of fervency. This… _this_ would have never came to be, boundless centuries and centuries ago.

He longed for this, as he longs now. Longed for Arthur physically and emotionally and to allow his king to know how Merlin _wants_ him. Not as just a sovereign, and not just that bright spark of hope for many—but as a person, flesh and blood and the sweet countenance of a smile.

Merlin could allow himself this now. He doesn't have to _fight_ , or dismiss his feelings. Let it shrink away in favor of another's needs. Or some bleedin' rubbish cosmic destiny. Or tempt the idea of giving over to someone else.

No one… _deserves_ what he feels for Arthur. No one ever would, or would understand.

He's eager to hear and touch and see, to hear Arthur's noises, the low, breathy gasps for stabilizing air as if it has been punched right out of his lungs. Eager to sense where the littlest twitches and shocks draw from Arthur's body, as they ground each other and _feel_ with wholehearted curiosity and need.

His bedroom is stifling, somehow. He's incredibly lightheaded and swimmy. Cast in early night and slits of moonlight. Arthur's skin pressing to him radiates so much _heat_.

Merlin has been distracted mostly by roaming, soft lips on his, gripping at Arthur's waist, when his white dress-shirt buttons ease apart. Losing patience with how gentle and meticulous the process is steadily becoming, Merlin's teeth drag against Arthur's bottom lip, nipping hard.

In return, Arthur's nails dig down warningly across Merlin's chest, as the damp material is thrown off. And Merlin can't stop _grinning_.

Not very fond of the idea from separating, not when they are leading up to the good part… as soon his shirt discards, Merlin's hands relock around Arthur's waist possessively.

But the grin fades.

And slowly, very slowly, Merlin realises his mistake late when he allows Arthur to peel off his damp, white shirt.

Everyone _bleeds_ when wounded. Skin ruptures apart, but eventually the manifestations disappear.

And if they don't, they aren't _this_.

Littered across Merlin's exposed flesh are long, silvery marks. Some grouped together, others isolated. Scars of manifestation never to disappear. Flat and untraceable to any distinct sense of touch, but _there_ all the same, smoothed and curled into Merlin's own skin. The largest of the silvery marks roped to the left side of Merlin's neck, like the mimic of a gash, and the ones to his abdomen and to his shoulders.

But one in particular on his side, hovering somewhere between the space of Merlin's hip and under his ribcage, does not match the others.

Unlike them, it's slightly ridged and wrinkled, like Arthur's scars. Sunken in its center. Tinged with violet-bruising and blackened at the centre.

A patch no bigger than a cherry tomato. _Angry_ -looking.

Merlin should not have _these_ scars. Warrior wounds; scars that came from battle or a _difficult_ life.

There are more than Arthur's sure he notices, the ones trailing down his side rivaling Percival's own boasted scars. The one on his side was what catches Arthur's attention. Arthur feels something stick in the back of his throat, fingers subconsciously lowering to ghost over it.

It looks painful.

_He—_

He's cold. Exposed. Chest heaving and silvery, roping scars _there_. Arthur can see them.

Suddenly, the urge to back away seizes Merlin. Something, _anything_ —retreat, cover up, stammer out an apology.

But Merlin only stands in numbed, unmoved hush, watching with growing horror as Arthur's eyes travels down.

The look on Arthur's face, stretched out for maybe only a few seconds, had been _agony_ to see manifest. Subdued distress and concern among the clearest of the emotions to register, Arthur's eyebrows furrowing together as his fingertips hover over the arrow-wound.

No. No, it had been far more than a simple _wound_. It could never heal. The rest of Merlin's scars are evidence of his abilities. But, _this…_

This is a _reminder_.

He swallows, throat clenching, meeting bright blues. Arthur's eyes reveal nothing. Merlin's lips part anxiously, as if he's going to speak. But only a weak, moaning breath escapes him as Arthur's hand winds quickly to his diamond-pattern tie and yanks him forward.

It's smooth and effortless motion, causing Merlin's forehead to bump to Arthur's without sharp pain and his stomach to flip in anticipation.

Arthur's lips find his again and it's _bliss_. Clouding away bruises and dark magic and thoughts of his humanity dying.

Just like that, Arthur pulls them back on track. He will not settle on the scars, or act surprised. He's seen plenty in his lifetime. Now is not the time for that sort of attention. Still, Arthur is careful to not jar him as he pushes Merlin down against the only bed.

With Merlin half on the mattress, Arthur raises a leg, knee sinking into it as he hovers over the other man, using the tie to tilt Merlin's head up.

Merlin scoots up it, reveling the sensation of being intimately crowded. Another warm body inches from. It's a familiar reflection.

Merlin's neck jerks up, obeying the unspoken, hungry demand from his companion, and gives into it with shimmering instinct, his blood seemingly on fire. And he keeps his hands at his sides, fingers curling.

No one. No one but Arthur elicits this response from him. So easily dominant and overtake. Treat him harshly but with obvious care. (Merlin… _yes_ , he's an old, experienced creature. The passage of time with only his immortality to keep him company and his memories grant him a medley of aesthetic and carnal pleasure, wherever he seeks it. He rarely let people witness a shade of truth about him.)

The loosened tie slips over Merlin's head, tugging at one of his ears and he wrinkles his nose in hazy displeasure, lips pursed. _Bugger_.

Arthur's hands scrambles for Merlin's belt, unhooking it and unzipping him. Merlin forgoes the idea of remaining still any longer, just as his trousers are finally being removed. He aids it along, wiggling his hips up a moment from the bed as large, sun-gold fingers tug everything away, including Merlin's pants and the thin, wool socks.

So much for keeping their brand-new, expensive clothes wrinkle-free, let alone dry from the weather.

"Your turn, clotpole," he murmurs, eyes on where he plainly sees Arthur's trousers beginning to strain, words sounding raspy and affectionate.

This time Merlin lets his hands wander with intent, undoing the front button and stripping away the belt expertly from his loops, barely rocking Arthur a millimeter.

Merlin's words warm and rough enough to send a lick of heat straight through his body. Arthur huffs in response. Merlin switches roles with him, slipping the belt without fault from the loops and unbuttoning the pants. If only he could've been that careful when it was his _actual_ job to undress him.

But, Merlin can definitely get used to this. Getting Arthur properly naked with the motivation to do _something_ about it.

The problem, however, is slowly becoming 'getting him properly naked' part.

Merlin's eyes flick over to Arthur's leg where it makes impact the quilt. Most of Arthur's weight situated on it. _Brilliant_.

"Mind your head," Merlin says in a mutter before knocking that leg, and Arthur's weight included, down. Thankful for the large space of bed still left for horseplay, and other variations thereof, Merlin uses momentum and the laws of gravity to his advantage. He grabs at the bigger, now likely startled, man and rolls Arthur on _his_ back.

Not wasting a couple seconds for an explanation—and not needing to—Merlin heaves himself up, smirking, and pulls at Arthur's trousers, nudging Arthur's hips to arch up to better the process. He laughs out loud at Arthur's grunt, and deposits the rest of Arthur's clothing on the floor with Merlin's things.

"Could have asked," Arthur says indignantly, arching his back.

"S'rry 'bout that," Merlin whispers, leaning over to gleefully set a lighter peck on Arthur's mouth, and not appearing the least bit sorry. _Naturally_.

Arthur's eyes roll, fingers trailing Merlin's thighs. "You're _hardly_ sorry," he responds, lips finding Merlin's jaw, thumbs trailing over jutting hip-bone before slipping underneath the hem of Merlin's boxers. "Not when you've got that smug look of yours on your face."

Etiquette or delicate technique isn't a matter Merlin sought out. Neither keen nor focused now except for immediate sensation permeating him. He and Arthur—they are soaked, chilled skin thawing, runny noses mopped and wet, sodden hair threaded.

Quick, muffled breathes and the noise of blood rushing. Merlin can hear it, in his own head, thudding away. His own blood surging and pumping through him. Just as strongly as the pace of Arthur's heart.

Arthur's grunt cues his loss of attention, or rather—how he had not been expecting Merlin's wiliness. Though he really _should_. Knowing Merlin as he does, after reading all Merlin done in the past and is capable of, Arthur really does need to expect the unexpected.

"My way was faster," Merlin replies to the indignant mutter below him, grin soft but no less cheeky. It doesn't feel a retort, but more casual, as if they are sharing a weekly paper over some coffee instead of sprawled out on Merlin's bed with flushed expressions and raging biggies.

"… And I think you fancy it when I have to do all the work."

Arthur's fingers spread across his skin, tracing lightly, with clear, wanting intent even if the other man 'appears' mildly irritated.

Merlin heaves a breath, thin chest sucking in. He stared back into paler blue eyes, still grinning until another kiss, like the peck, answers all possible scenarios. And all to hang forgotten.

The more time he spends against the heat of Arthur's mouth, the more Merlin is certain he _never_ wants to leave it. The taste of a pure heart and noble humanity never to wash out. Maybe then, if Merlin ever considered himself the lucky sort, it will slowly course inside him with time, purging the obscurity and emptiness.

It's a _beautiful want_ , and he was sure Arthur can provide.

A deep chuckle rises from Merlin, a hand curled around Arthur's side as the other helps support his weight, humming quietly and tilting his head and neck to allow Arthur to kiss his jaw. And then, he feels the hot drag and weight of Arthur's cock. Still through Merlin's underwear, but it's _nearly_ like being naked.

A partly choked gasp leaves Merlin, as he rocks into Arthur's hips. Both hands pressing and open to his mattress, right beside where Arthur's shoulders rest. A slight tremble in his arms.

"You still have _too much_ on, Merlin."

Merlin repeats the motion, grinding harder, Arthur's hands and his fingertips traveling across his tailbone, leaving hallmarks of churning fire. Merlin doesn't close his eyes.

Can't. He doesn't _want_ to.

Merlin drops his forehead to Arthur's, letting them cushion each other for a few seconds. He breathes out harshly to smirking, pink lips and with a faint bite to his voice, " _Arse_."

He rolls off of Arthur, but with no intentions to sally. Wiggling on available space of mattress and shucking off the horribly tight material, bare skin rubbing to quilt cloth.

"Quit complaining, Merlin."

Merlin tries to work some relief back into his parts, fingers brushing and cupping his bollocks under himself a moment. Merlin catches Arthur's eye while he did this, corner of his mouth quirking and teasing. " _Mm_ , so much better," he murmurs, eyelids quivering together.

A heavy sigh issues out from between Merlin's kiss-swollen lips, as he leans his head forward. He doesn't want to handle himself too much though. The occasion would be all over before it could even begin.

Merlin's eyes reopened the low, thundering noise from Arthur, having the register crackle electricity though his nerves lightning-quick. And to see the other man glance him over in slow hunger and flushed approval. He doesn't mind ending back underneath Arthur, or how Arthur lying against Merlin makes him go lax and pliant.

Arthur obviously has no complaints either, fitting so nicely in the warm, bony cradle between Merlin's opening legs. Their eyes never tear away from each other. The _look_ Arthur gives him so… trusting.

He always wanted that look from him. Merlin always _wanted_ to know Arthur trusted him, would be open with him. Even if Merlin had betrayed that honest-hearted trust before, and wanted nothing more than to mend it and rekindle it to the former, wondrous spark.

Arthur's forefinger and several of his fingertips dance across Merlin's naked forearm, black hairs rising on the surface.

He lets out a breathless, soft chuckle, gladdened by the smirk on Arthur's face.

" _Indeed_ , better," Arthur says, lowly. "I like this much more."

"I—I'll bet."

He lost that sensible train of thought when Merlin feels Arthur's hand on his cock. A smooth, but roughly calloused, grasp, beginning tentative in its exploration. " _Ohh_."

One of Merlin's hands grasp into the mess of Arthur's hair, nails scraping. The other traces Arthur's jaw and and down his neck, each touch burning Merlin's skin. Just as Arthur's mouth had the ability to burn pleasantly to the round of Merlin's cheek and to his lips.

" _Mhm_ ," Arthur sighs out the agreement, stroking Merlin's cock a little faster.

"Wait…" The urgency in Merlin's voice isn't worrisome, or fearful. "Wait… …"

He doesn't want to stop this. He just wants Arthur to _follow_. Merlin shoves the hand away, gently. Determination flooding him.

Merlin kisses him, lifting his head somewhat to do it properly, certainty and adoration channeling every inch of it, and then moans, arching. Hooking an arm around Arthur to bring him closer. Merlin's hips rub up against Arthur's, their cocks nestled together, slipping side-by-side.

It's almost perfect. There's some unsteadiness and lack of focus.

There's a bit of dryness from the raw friction, against their skin, with only what little pre-cum can be provided, but Merlin favours it.

Arthur's hands on him, golden and firm and _perfect_ heat, damn near what Merlin only chanced imagining to himself while alone.

Untried and youthful vigilance, those many years ago, he imagined deeds and powerful emotions that could only be risked by the cover of dark and with noises stifled by either Merlin's fist or his thin, hard pillow. By the old gods, it was _Gaius'_ workshop just outside Merlin's door. He didn't very well want to startle or embarrass his father-figure.

(Neither had Merlin require a lecture on… the dandelions and the hens. That conversation had well been thoroughly discussed with his mother and another neighbor when he had been at a wee age.)

The friction sharp and _shocking_ , and a ragged noise leaves him in time with Merlin. Oh, god yes. Arthur's teeth drags into his lower lip as he instinctively presses back into the dry rub. Arthur steadies himself a little more, breath harsh, but then he lowers down against Merlin's hips.

Merlin gasps low into the line of Arthur's throat, hearing the ragged breath and feeling where the other man pushes back for _more_.

He searches down, purposely smearing the gathering of fluid against his hand and the length of their cocks sliding together.

It felt like slow effervescence residing in Merlin's chest, warm and filmy bubbling, less obvious than the caffeine in his syrupy gin. His head and his very scalp tingle pleasantly, his limbs, whatever bare of him that presses up against Arthur's body. The hollow inside of Merlin's mouth.

Which Arthur's tongue seems rather fond of seeking out. Overbearing, maybe. Persistent, _yes_. The surface of Arthur's lips tastes damp and swollen to Merlin's, as he nudges past them, teasing and exploring, licking the upper ridge of Arthur's mouth. Tasting something deeper, like remnants of aching _nostalgia_ , sweat and fresh air and woods.

Merlin repeats the lick, mouths wider open, their breath twining.

He bucks harder to Arthur's hips, urging him on, to bring them to some closing point. But silently never wanting it to come.

Arthur's hands fist into the quilt, knuckles white as he matches his thrusts, to Merlin's pace.

Fingers and nails don't remove themselves from Arthur's hair, but Merlin's arm removes itself to Arthur's waist. Instead, one of Merlin's hands roam as it desires, running across broad chest until his thumbnail scrapes against Arthur's nipple, jolting sensation.

Arthur groans faintly into Merlin's mouth.

The _little_ —.

He can _feel_ the devious smile.

Merlin does manage to time another raw-feeling scrape, this time with a middle fingernail on the same nipple, with a light suck on the point of Arthur's tongue. Grinning softly, mischievously and enjoying the littlest responses of arousal.

He can't keep that attitude for long. Their combined rhythm quickens, losing any grace. The need for an orgasm building, _tugging_ at him. Merlin presses a sharp, desperate thrust against Arthur, back arched, head digging back against the mattress. A sighed mumble, incoherent at best, but possibly could have been meant for Arthur.

It's a constant battle between wanting to touch and needing to keep himself upright. Merlin holds him close enough for both of them. Arthur is given the chance to take a real breath for the first time in a while, the sound ragged.

Arthur's shoulders flex as he bows forward, head pressing to Merlin's collar-bone as he throws his body into it. Lips pressing uncoordinated kisses, teeth grazing—

" _Merlin_ ," Arthur says, muffling, the noise strange and barely coherent against his skin.

Merlin's body feels as if it was beyond his control, undeniably aroused and slickened with perspiration, with his blood pounding loudly inside his skull. He's weighed down by Arthur's continued, warm presence and riding a _need_ so great it might as well rip him apart.

It could have the universe split apart, and he would be satisfied. With the man above him—his other _half_ —wrapped around him, long, heavy limbs and gold skin, kissing and sucking the very air out of Merlin.

He vaguely feels the sheets bunching around him where Arthur's hands pin down, but ignores it. Merlin can't focus on much else other than pushing his lips open and fiercely against Arthur's, and thrusting his cock back to Arthur's rocking grinds, and holding _on_.

It's nearly rough enough between them to consider the faintest notions of a sore friction-burn. But he would cherish any reminder of this.

Even if it's hurried, arching bodies and soft, quick groans. Merlin's heels create dips to the mattress as it seems that Arthur got the message—the other man spurring on the pace, nudging his face against Merlin's neck and collar, the hot flush of his damp breaths on him.

Fingers grip tighter, harder to Arthur's hair. He—

Merlin squeezes his eyes shut, needing, _needing_ , trembling and shoving up wildly to Arthur's rocking hips, leaving no space untouched. He needs—Arthur, he needs— him, he needs—this.

He, just, come _on_ —

His ears pick up the gasp of his own name, passing from Arthur's red-raw mouth and his teeth clinking to Merlin's. _Feeling_ it. And with that, the desperation is over. Merlin heaves out his orgasm soundless, lips parted, tilting his head back once more.

An invisible wash of magic rushes out of Merlin, blown up in proportions from the tangible manifestation of a release. Rattling several items in place, including the bed-frame, before quieting. Dully blinking on the lights within the bedroom, before fading off.

He misses it; Merlin's fingers drift to lightly claw the nape of Arthur's neck, as his other hand weakly grasps at Arthur's side.

Any semblance of what's happening around him disappears; Arthur doesn't even catch the quivering of his own breath or the half-conscious words and sounds leaving him as his teeth bite down on Merlin's skin. He wants to leave marks. He wants a reminder that this is _real_ when Merlin and him wake up the next morning. God knows Arthur won't need it.

Arthur has never been a verbal lover.

When forced to keep quiet, whether in the forest or in tents or his own chambers, he learned how to stop the rough moans inside. Bruised lips, teeth burying into pillows or gloves. Guinevere managed to soften his instincts, stripping down those walls until he was panting and murmuring words of love to her sweet, dark skin.

He _knows_ before feeling the damp heat slide against his cock, some dragging against his stomach. Arthur knows by the near silent hitch in Merlin's throat.

The bed trembles underneath them, the rattling of the headboard is only background noise to the pounding of his heart. Just a little more, just a _little_ quicker.

And then, Arthur loses himself to his own pleasure.

Matted, blond hair scratches against the nape of Merlin's neck as Arthur lays his head there, mouth open in a strained gasp as the friction becomes too much. Hands on him, his neck, his side, but his own can't remove themselves from the bunched sheets, from between his fingers.

*

They have been waiting for the build of some manner; an overflow.

It lingered thick and hard to ignore between them for some time now—emotions and physicality—stolen, remarkably gentle kisses under a magicked umbrella, or knowledge that Arthur opened his heart about his past. Or that Merlin's stony, distanced countenance fell away. Or that they both couldn't for the life of them stop _flirting_.

Modern-day romances take no root in his heart, no seed to embed. Books, movies, the fantastical and illuminating stories of Person A and Person B conquering all impossible obstacles they faced together and gaining all they needed for an almost-perfect happy ending…

He never _knew_ love to be like that.

Love was sacrifice. Love was utter frustration and turmoil. Love swept over you and then gnawed at you, some days kindly, only taking a few pieces here and there… and others, it burned a hole in your chest so large that a nebulous-sun didn't match.

Merlin didn't know it then, as the wide-eyed and charming youth, but he was _born_ for Arthur.

To be entangled in a long-foretold destiny with his King that battered and rammed the psyche, that trapped Merlin in a body that wouldn't _die_. That never grew as old as he felt in the last millennium—bone-weary and ancient as the raging sea.

He didn't want Arthur strictly as bed-company. It was undeniably enticing on the senses, yes. It was the present moment, yes—Arthur's hot, low breathes to his ear, his cock sliding easier against the body-warmed mess as Merlin writhed and gasped softly under him, over-sensitized. But it wasn't necessary to his… happiness.

Having Arthur at all, bright and as ancient, _is_.

*

 


	38. Chapter 38

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HERE'S THE NEW CHAPTER. SORRY I'VE BEEN AWAY. It's been a long month and a half... or something ... I didn't know what I was going to do. A lot of shit was happening. But I wanna thank everyone who is still sticking around for reading and following this, and whoever is commenting! I love you lots. C: I hope you enjoyed!
> 
> Half of this fic wouldn't exist without [marlena_darling](http://archiveofourown.org/users/marlena_darling/pseuds/marlena_darling) and I wanna say thank you for taking this journey with me and you've been a best friend to me. I love you lots and this is ours.

*

A loud, incoherent groan erupts from above him, piercing the daze and haze. Like a wood mannequin's strings being clipped, Arthur's muscular upper half weighs down on him.

To keep him from completely falling, Merlin slowly relocks his arms around the other man, embracing and dragging Arthur onto his side to face him.

Merlin's left shoulder aches terribly, coming down to a weak stinging in time with his thudding, excited pulse. Reddened impressions of teeth left behind as a testament.

Arthur latched his mouth on and _bit_ down.

(If that didn't stir whatever lust sought cohering in him, then well…)

He meant to leave a welt. Arthur meant to leave behind visible proof that what they were doing now was genuine, that Merlin as his, as if it were possessive, jealous instinct. Lacking the antagonism behind it.

Arthur's face remains tucked to Merlin's neck, with him saying nothing even as Merlin drowsily noses his hair, inhaling.

 _Human_.

So human.

" _Mmh_." He mouths Arthur's scalp, lips rubbing. " _Th't wss…_ "

Good.

It was _very_ good.

Arthur feels boneless and loose, easy and warm in the best manner. Good is a bit of an _understatement_ , too. That's what he wants to tell Merlin. All that leaves him is a satisfied grunt in agreement as a mouth nudges faintly against his hair.

… Maybe next time.

Fingers flexing, his arm curling tighter around the smaller body next to him as Arthur buries his face further into the other man's neck. He's comfortable like this — more than comfortable. This was where he wants to be, for tonight, for the rest of his time here. _Forever_.

Yes… that seems nice.

Arthur may have said as much, but he isn't sure quite what comes out of his mouth.

However, Merlin holds to Arthur no more tighter than the moment needs. Simply choosing to indulge in the scent and warmth of the other man. No _ordinary_ man holds back, as these are no ordinary circumstances.

Thoughts of 'Avalon's magic' or 'kings' or 'preordained doomed existence' sinks away from him, floating puffy-faced and heavy to the very bottom of Merlin's swimmy consciousness.

Arthur's large, muscled body shifts closely against him, cock limp and damp with fluid to the outside of Merlin's thigh. Despite the lack of vocalized coherency between them and the racing of his blood in his eardrums… Merlin isn't especially accustomed with this.

With this feeling of closeness. Twisted in sheets, a human-warm, naked body within reach, and preparing to succumb to rest.

Merlin can't remember a time where any of his partners _stayed_.

(Nor him, for that matter. It was… _too_ intimate. Falling asleep in someone else's arms. Believing you were safe and wanted. Too trusting.)

Sex came with a new territory in these modern ages. No one had to commit. No one needed to _love_ you with all their heart to poke you around a bit. Not even in public. They just needed a dose of hot, liquid courage, transport, and a wide breadth of desire for the physical act.

His instincts pull Arthur towards him, genuinely feeling _wanted_ for once, but it doesn't occur to Merlin to expect a difference. Arthur isn't like any casual partner, or any living existence on this tiny, blue planet Merlin knew. But can there be surety in knowing this?… That Arthur _needs_ him, and not just _wants_?

The answer drifts past the blood in Merlin's head, pounding and pounding softly, Arthur's mouth parting to his neck, "— _forever_."

When it registers in him, that mumbled little word, Merlin wakes up gradually from a deep, undisturbed sleep. Very gradually. Sunshine blares inside the room, but does no more than irritate him enough glare at his own window pointlessly and roll over.

Hangovers rarely exist for anything immortal, even if it was likely _more_ than he probably should have had last night. The clothing-less results, however — Merlin wouldn't have traded for anything.

*

Naturally, Arthur didn't remember when he fell asleep.

He simply closed his eyes and the rest turned dark. The next thing he knew he woke up to a faint glow through his eyelids and a throbbing on the sides of his head.

Arthur snuffles a croaky, soft groan, slowly rolling onto his back. He notes the mild chill up his spine, and then heat just barely ghosting against his skin. His _fully_ bare skin.

It takes Arthur a moment of confused silence to figure out why exactly he's _naked—_ but then, the night comes rushing to the front of his memory in a sudden burst of excitement.

His eyes snap open, ignoring the pain of adjusting to the morning light in favour of turning his attention to the person next to him.

Merlin, who was slightly tucked away by wrinkled covers, whose dark hair stuck up in the back in a sleepy sort of way, but also he gives insight to the night before—seeing as he also _quite_ naked.

It's a beautiful sight to wake up to. Eyes trail slowly along Merlin's lean body, taking in what he had not _truly_ been able to the night before. It seems like a shame.

With Merlin splayed out and relaxed, Arthur's able to glimpse him. _Scars_ , ones like battle wounds collected over time that appear so utterly _wrong_ etched Merlin's pale skin. Merlin shouldn't have those. He wasn't a warrior. He never had the training. He had the ability to heal.

And yet…

Arthur blearily remembers a few details about what led to the bedroom, but he remembers the look on Merlin's face _clearly_ when his shirt came off. The thought alone is enough for Arthur to gently roll back onto his stomach, hands touching lightly against Merlin's side as his chin props up on his chest.

The one, a white line looking like a slash wound along Merlin's ribs, is the first of the scars that Arthur presses his lips to. The motion cautious, feather-light until he repeats it, as if the more he does… the better the chances of it disappearing grows.

He wants to kiss _all_ of Merlin, have his lips everywhere on him, and this will be the place to start.

Arthur nuzzles his head against him, liftin it momentarily to mouth at the crook underneath Merlin's jaw as his fingers trace over the other scars much lower.

So many. _Too_ many.

He can feel Merlin moving underneath his fingertips. The slow, semi-regular rise and fall of his chest, the sound of his breathing filling the otherwise quiet room. Arthur swears he feels the pulse of Merlin's heart beating against the swell of his own lips as he trails them down the arch of Merlin's neck.

It's a serene moment of peace only marred by the sensation of Merlin's old wounds beneath his fingertips. Arthur knows the difference of flesh and scars without even looking; he mapped his own enough times over the years to have a full understanding.

Arthur's mouth presses to his collarbone lightly, peppering where teeth dug in the night before with apologetic kisses. His hands wander down further, the left sliding along Merlin's side.

Merlin's skin is an expanse of territory not yet charted, and behind the tired exuberance for his current work, Arthur feels a _thrill_ similar to the ones he would get before embarking on a journey.

The need to explore, to find out _more_.

As Arthur's thumb drags over ribs and his body shifts lower, Arthur feels Merlin begin to wake. It's the simple knowledge of his consciousness that keeps Arthur going, eyes flickering upward as the rest of him travels downward.

Not opening his eyes, but relaxing his half-exposed limbs, Merlin hitches in a breath. A tickling sensation on his chest, light and firm. He wants to scratch at it, for a brief moment, but drowsily ignores it.

Until it happens again.

And then warm, big hands cradle his sides. Merlin's skin, and his entire being, shivers pleasantly as Arthur—it _is_ Arthur; even with eyes shut, Merlin knows the presence of bright, familiar soul-light when it's centimeters from him—moves up him.

Dry, sleepy lips touch against the space under Merlin's chin, nudging and exploring lazy as Arthur's fingertips do the same, etching his ribs.

Perhaps it's time to make it known that he's aware of this. Merlin raises a hand slowly, rubbing his fingers over an eyelid and whispering, "...M'rnning."

Stormy blue peek open, adjusting to the lighting and to the view of Arthur's nose almost colliding his lips.

 _Wait_.

He feels Arthur's thumb caress over him. No, over one of Merlin's _scars_. Purposely.

Merlin's lips quirk up from a faint smile that builds.

"…Whhru doing?" he tries to ask with some urgency, sliding his hand over Arthur's to clasp it loosely.

Arthur's hand turn, palm facing up as he laces their fingers together in response before offering a low him against Merlin's stomach.

"Appreciating what I couldn't last night," Arthur finally murmur, slowing to press a real, firm kiss there before continuing on. There are so many that at this angle it's hard to keep track, but Arthur won't _forget_ a single one. He can't.

Whether he could explain it or not, he knows this is _important_. At least to him.

Arthur's hands are sleepy, open pressure against him, hot and weighted. Cradling and large, spanning broader than Merlin's paler ones—though he's certain his own fingers were longer, bone-jointed.

Merlin thinks it's fair to assume both of them knows the other was awake, and what exactly is happening. Arthur is… searching out familiarity. Tracing the long, silvery marks across Merlin's chest with his mouth and with the soft brush of his fingertips, perhaps to memory.

And him asking Arthur _why_ feels rather pointless, seeing that his king is determined to do as he pleased often half the time.

Merlin takes in a deep, relaxing breath and peeks out through his lashes once more. Staring at Arthur's profile. The faint definition of a cheekbone beneath warm-toned, golden skin. The deep pink contour of Arthur's upper lip.

There comes an impulse, riding fast, to push his fingers through the blond, tousled mess of Arthur's hair. Comb away his uncut bangs and run his palm against the side of Arthur's face.

To try and memorise the moment as well.

But Merlin's hand remains with Arthur's, their fingers locking together. Blossoming heat spreading through the warlock, fond and unchanged.

He drags the golden arm up him, having it settle limply before Merlin silently touches Arthur's hand under his chin, holding it there curled. And it does nothing to halt the barely-there kisses, or grazing sensations.

A shudder of a laugh ghosts murmurous from Merlin's lips.

He won't _dare_ think of revealing that his ribs were a might ticklish. Merlin gotten through nearly two millennial without Arthur figuring it out—he's bloody well set on keeping it that way, if chance let him. Arthur would show him no mercy pinning him down in a tickle war.

And Merlin would rather not wet himself from mad hysterics.

The most it gets out of him is a little squirm in place, and Merlin smiles boyishly at Arthur's earlier murmur. " _Heh_ —I beg to differ, on the lack of appreciation bit," he says, dark head shifting on his pillow.

And then, Merlin's body strings up tight, like a nocking of a bow. Air sucks in through Merlin's teeth. Magic under the surface of his skin reverberates, like the kinetic echo of that bow.

His leg instinctively nudges Arthur's shoulder, nearly pressing it away.

The violet-bruising and blackened scar, sunken in its center, and no bigger than a cherry tomato, feels completely _raw_ to another person's touch.

"Sorry," he mumbles, letting their hands free and watching Arthur's expression solemnly. A trickle of relief when Arthur's hand slide off from his side. "I'm… not used to anyone getting close to it."

Which is a grievous understatement.

No one ever _saw_ he had such a marking. Merlin kept it bandaged from sight whenever he knew someone would glimpse him without a proper top or a jumper.

Damn, he needs to…... they need to just forget it. Merlin attempts to backtrack, forcing a smile.

"Don't mind it—s'complicated."

Arthur knows that look, that instinct to pull away. Merlin feels he has to be _guarded_ ; Arthur had seen it in the other man's eyes before. No matter how Merlin tries to cover it up, it's always there. No amount of smile covers that wariness up.

Arthur's chin once again props up on Merlin's torso.

 _Complicated_? Isn't that all their life were now?

Arthur had risen from the land of the dead, only to find himself over a thousand years in the future. Centuries _after_ his people, his kingdom fallen and died away.

He learned of everything Merlin had done during their time together, Arthur was nearly killed by a _car_. He had been forced to face the part of his father inside him when Arthur snapped and let himself release his anger on the one person he cared for most. He and Merlin had gone on a _date_.

Their lives are so very _complicated_. A bruise on the body Arthur planned on treasuring would not be allowed to fall in that category as well.

"Tell me about it," Arthur finally says, not breaking eye contact as his fingers carefully brush around the edges of the discoloured scar. He's gentle as he can be, mouth pressing against Merlin's skin again. "You know the stories of mine. I want to know _yours_."

*

He didn't mean to recoil. To put up his barriers. Arthur had done nothing wrong—he _wouldn't_ , couldn't do anything wrong in this.

If they are truly, and honestly, going to attempt a relationship beyond their ages-long and cherished friendship, Merlin needs to let it all go. He needs to see again that Arthur is _Arthur_ , and to be so cautious against something as simple as human touch would be… damaging.

The slightly incredulous look on Arthur's face at the mention of " _complicated_ " is rightfully earned, he expects. It does sound a little barmy if Merlin considers all of their circumstances in a grouping.

Arthur's hand scoots up Merlin's chest, dragging the light dusting of black curlicues as the other man sets his chin down gently, staring calmly and pointedly at Merlin.

Merlin swallows down a rebuttal, because it's unwarranted.

Where does Arthur get to be so _levelheaded_ …?

The corners of Merlin's mouth twitch up. He doesn't go taut, or hiss when Arthur's fingers etch around the ugly, wrinkled scar. But he isn't going to ignore Arthur's questions, or deny him the answers.

Arthur can tell Merlin is trying not to flinch. Under his touch, Arthur feels coiled muscle slowly unravelling, deeper breaths smoothing them out.

Arthur will get an answer out of him, even if it takes longer than expected. They have _all_ the time in the world.

Luckily, Merlin's reluctance caves before that.

Merlin lets himself fully lean back, head impacting one of his pillows and closing his eyes against the disarray of his thoughts grinding back at him.

His hands scrub roughly against his face, moving slowly down when he removes them.

… Mab," he says, conversationally. Merlin's voice toneless and flat.

 _Mab_.

The woman whose presence caused the emotion-charged divide between them to crumble and flare. The _witch_ who played with Arthur's mind, causing him to say and think things he never would have otherwise. And now, the being who almost took Merlin away from him before Arthur had the chance to have him at all.

It's safe to say she holds a bitter impression in Arthur's mind.

Arthur's lips press together in thought as he continues to listen. He doesn't like Merlin's tone; he almost _wants_ emotion. Something that makes this feel like less of a third party retelling.

But Arthur stays quiet, focused on taking it all in.

"Y'know, I wasn't being completely blinkered when I said she was dangerous. I've never been able to reason with her. I've never been able to stop her. Trying to defeat the Fae is a bit like yelling at an oncoming storm." Hard to _kill_ is what Merlin meant. But he doesn't feel like voicing every atrocity he ever considered to Arthur.

"This…" Pale, spindly fingers press to the bruising scar, avoiding Arthur's fingers. "It'is a reminder." He gazes back to Arthur's eyes, face stern. "What happens when you face something more ancient and…" _Darker_. More powerful than you. "I wasn't careful. Not enough."

Heavy history in those words, and the look Merlin gives him proof enough for Arthur to know it so. Powerful, old and greedy, even compared to Merlin, means _trouble_.

"A barbed arrow." Merlin sizes out the length between his fingers. A good few inches of space left for a visual. "No bigger than this. It was tainted with her magic… _hell_ magic, and I wasn't _careful_ …"

The next breath out is rushed, louder. Merlin's smile thin and terse. Clearly mocking itself.

"And there was nothing I could do when it struck me."

Arthur understands where this leads, and that twist in his heart returns. Finally, he looks away, eyes on Merlin's skin.

She _shot_ him.

Mab shot Merlin with an arrow laced with _dark_ magic, and—

He finds it difficult to swallow when Merlin's voice shakes. Arthur can't ignore that tone. He doesn't want to look up, because Merlin _will_ see his anger. Even if it was for _Merlin's_ sake, he doesn't want him to know it.

If the room was anymore quiet, everyone in it would hear Merlin's heart pound quick from his chest.

"Arthur, I said that when that kind of magic touches you… it corrupts. It erases everything inside you that was good and whole. What happened to Lancelot was a fate _worse_ than death, but he was only mortal. Raised from the dead by Morgana, by the powers of her darkest magic. And I couldn't _die_ , and it was _consuming_ me."

His gaze snaps to Merlin, lips pressing down together. Arthur knew of the effects of magic, especially of a certain darkness.

He _doesn't_ need it explained to him. He seen what _happened_ to Morgana. To others. Flashes of his most loyal knight appear in his mind. Lancelot had not been himself during their last encounters together; in fact, he hadn't been himself _at all._

It didn't help to know that he did not receive the honour and peace after his sacrifice. It also hurt Arthur to know he himself sent Guinevere away because of something that was Morgana's bidding.

Arthur looks away again, finding it easier than taking in the fragile state of Merlin's smile. He's _so_ angry. _Angry_ because of what happened to Merlin, about the pain Mab inflicted on him over the years. _Angry_ because this was the woman Merlin gone up against alone once again. And now, Arthur knows very well just how much of a risk that is.

But most of all, he's angry at the fact that there is _nothing_ that could be done.

Merlin is not Morgana, nor has the bitterness and hatred carried in Morgause. But that _darkness_ may be inside him, growing, and Arthur had seen parts of Merlin that changed since their last encounters. The witch _did_ this to him—or perhaps, she only sped up the process.

His chest aches, and Arthur's throat feels as if it's closing.

"…" A weak, cynical laugh escapes him, Merlin's smile so brittle. "I wanted to see you. Alive. I begged at nothing. It… …"

This isn't easy. Recalling any of this.

It's preferable to… disappear. To shift away, shift to a new form, and to evade the harsh memories that creep over him. Or the harsher lives lived. To someone like Mab, Merlin had been a mere child who had not feared where he stepped. A _fool_ , but not simple. And certainly not weak.

Perhaps that's why she couldn't bear the thought of him.

A human-like creature who contained limitless power. Immortal, but weighed down by his convictions and restrained from hellish temptation by thoughts of his creed and of love.

Merlin's fingers absently push to the bruising mark, but not enough to cause any sharp pain. As he speaks, blandly and without much of an expression, Arthur's mouth thins and eyebrows furrows. Merlin understands it's not with an grievance towards _him_ but rather it's a gesture in taking in the information. Managing to swallow it down.

(Arthur only has this life. He can not shift away. He can not evade his creeds or love.)

Speaking Mab's name aloud, Arthur's muscles start to go rigid, where he still lays near Merlin. He remembers… Arthur has to. Hard not to. The entire incident of Merlin forcibly using his magic, and _trapping_ Arthur inside the cottage while the warlock faced her alone.

It had been a terrible mistake. And, Merlin has not heard any further forgiveness on the subject… not that he's completely sure he deserves so much as a single, gossamer strand of it.

Instead of answering, Arthur shushes him, mouth touching a brief, lingering kiss to Merlin's abdomen. Faint emotion hovers, soft and unspoken causing a fainter shiver at the purposeful warmth.

"I'm _alive_. I'm here with you," he explains. "That dark magic has not taken you away from me."

Arthur won't let it.

Over a thousand years, and multiple battles, wars, and plots against Arthur's life still never managed to pull Merlin permanently from his side. The idea that something internal and invisible could possibly take that all away is _terrifying_. Merlin isn't smiling but his grip is fierce, real, and that's enough. He hopes it's enough for the _both_ of them.

Merlin wraps his fingers securely to Arthur's searching his, holding on.

"It didn't," he says, whispering.

Merlin straightens up, chin raised, voice low, "I need to tell you something, even… when I _swore_ I would never speak of it, but you deserve to know the whole truth. I owe you that." He goes silent a moment, just content with feeling Arthur's pulse strong. Wishing to feel it to his lips.

"I was saved," Merlin says, a corner of his mouth quirking, sardonically.

Arthur braces himself for whatever it is to come, but hearing this, he stares in astonishment.

This is _good_ , isn't it? It's _more_ than good—

"When I called out for help, the dragons heard me." Stormy blue eyes glance up solemnly at Arthur's outright confusion. "Yeh, they're still alive. A colony, hidden and safe. Has been for a long time. Longer than I can guess. Not loads of them, but… my father kept that secret to his grave."

"In order to save a life, something _important_ has to be sacrificed. Or the balance can't be met." Merlin's voice thickens. His chest hammering that awful heartbeat, eyes squinting up. He can't… keep secrets anymore. "They wanted to save the Last Dragonlord, and the dragons _could_ … but for that to happen, I had to willingly give up a part of myself."

Dragons were a touchy subject, considering the era of Camelot's reign. Considering what Kilgharrah had done. Arthur had no affiliation or love for their kind—or really, _Merlin's_ kind.

Merlin doesn't expect that he may ever. Qualities of a stubborn dollophead, he supposes. Arthur's brow wrinkles, but he says nothing. He says nothing for most of Merlin talking.

Merlin's head lowers, as he scratches his fingernails over his temple. A nervous tic of a breathless laugh sounds.

"There was only one thing worth offering at the time," he says, gripping harder onto Arthur's hand, his own palm slick. "And I did it. Without hesitating because there wasn't time left. I sacrificed my humanity to purge myself of the dark magic. And to live to see this day."

Arthur suddenly feels _lightheaded_ as he processes… _what_?

Merlin sacrificed his humanity?

He _sacrificed_ his… …

Was that even _possible_?

Merlin said he hadn't hesitated; Merlin gave away the last bit that made him human? Merlin isn't _human_. He said he never meant to speak of it again. Did that mean he wasn't planning on telling him before? Was Arthur supposed to just continue on only knowing of his magic?

"How?" Arthur speaks up, curtly.

"You can't explain something like that."

" _Try_."

Something as resilient and as deeply rooted as 'humanity'… to have that ripped out had been an nonphysical agony. The poison itself had been debilitating on his senses, slowly rotting Merlin, but that feeling was nothing compared to afterward.

His dragon-kin endured Merlin's writhing and screams, the violent hallucinations and mumbling pleas to beings that were not there.

When the ritual was over, when Merlin was finally saved—the pain was so _absolute_.

So much so to the point where he did not react. Severe bodily paralysis kept Merlin from rising to his feet, from breathing on his own. The mental shock of losing something so _precious_ was… even worse. His magic, frailer than a songbird's heartbeat, whimpered inside him. His kin fed him their magic, allowing their life essence to slip into his.

It all felt… different from before.

As a boy, Merlin could feel the earth if he could concentrate hard enough, if the ground was holy enough. But now, Merlin felt _everything_.

Felt the earth sigh, and rage, and weep. He couldn't turn it off. Not even for a moment.

He's _part_ of its existence now.

It helped to be distracted, to not think on himself or his complicated past. Which is why Merlin found it less taxing and beneficial to transform into other people, other aliases. Reaching out to those were shiny and new souls, viewing him with wide and innocent eyes.

"What that felt like…" Merlin's inhale shudders. "It wasn't being empty, not cold. But there's something _missing_ … I know it should be here with me." A genuine smile appear on Merlin's face, crooked and sudden. "And I tried filling it with different identities, different outlooks and different people, and things like _sin_."

Merlin's teeth yank roughly at his bottom lip.

"I'm not alive, but… it's not like being dead either. The first time I've ever felt like myself was that morning, being pinned by my neck to that tree." Blue eyes met blue, as he murmurs thoughtfully, "Seeing you covered in the lakewater. I thought… maybe it was worth it."

Arthur's old, old eyes remind him of the pain, of why he hides in plain sight, but Merlin knows in his heart he can't run forever.

Arthur will help him face it. He will be the healing.

He isn't trying to alarm the other man, and Merlin very well understands that he has with this new revelation (on top of the many), but grateful that Arthur doesn't lean away, doesn't stare critically.

But, Arthur doesn't quite know _what_ to say. What could there be to say in response to something that monumental? Merlin isnot the same man he knew during his time as an heir and king. And yet, he is capable of it. Merlin just needs to be _reminded_ of that sometimes.

Arthur's fingers lock around his, lips quirking a little more.

"Perhaps it was worth it," he says.

Merlin's chest warms, pushing away the tension at the small smile, and echoes it faintly to Arthur. With his free hand, Merlin rubs a thumb meditatively over the edge of a sun-gold shoulder.

"Now what sort of _sins_ are you making mention to, _Mer_ lin?"

"Excuse me?" Merlin laughs out, glimpsing the coy eyebrow-raise. "No, no, that's for another time. One life-shattering story at a time. Small doses are recommended."

Arthur snorts.

"Whatever you say."

There is, apparently, no humanity _left_ in Merlin. He sacrificed it to stay _himself_ , and now only his magic and dragon blood remains. Keeps him _here_.

Despite Merlin saying it's true, Arthur doesn't quite believe that. He still see so much of the man he _used_ to be shining in his eyes when Merlin laughs to think that it's gone forever.

"Speaking of…" Merlin gives him a pointed, serious look. "How's your thick head? The last time you got tankard you managed to keep your last meal down, but maybe we shouldn't wait to see how long that stays true."

Arthur managed to forget about the throbbing in his temples by distracting himself with Merlin's skin and his stories, but now it all rushes clearly back into his mind.

He bites back a groan as his skull pounds viciously with the reminder.

"Please, stop trying to be funny, Merlin," Arthur mutters, eyes shutting as he tries to fight the queasiness that comes with the notion that his dinner may not stay in his stomach.

Blimey, if there is anything more _terrible_ in this modern age, it's the particular types of hangovers.

"I'm not sure I like modern day drinks if this is what it's like."

*

 


	39. Chapter 39

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AND WE ARE STILL GOING STRONG! October is so close... it's my favorite time of year. I ended up with a major sinus/ear infection super recently but I'm still very excited about running around pumpkin patches and going to a haunted quarry and JUST SCREWING AROUND FOR HALLOWEEN. I hope everyone's been staying healthy and I hope you enjoy the new chapter! Any comments/thoughts are so so appreciated! <3
> 
> Half of this fic wouldn't exist without [marlena_darling](http://archiveofourown.org/users/marlena_darling/pseuds/marlena_darling) and I wanna say thank you for taking this journey with me and you've been a best friend to me. I love you lots and this is ours.

*

He looks _awful_. This shouldn't be funny.

Merlin's teeth drag over his bottom lip as a smirk threatens to creep over him, right when Arthur's eyes scrunch up and as his king mutters displeasure.

In fact, nothing should be remotely funny about the world after confessing losing his humanity.

But then again, the world has gotten… better. Has gotten more radiant.

And since Merlin isn't feeling a bit affected by consuming heavy amounts of liquor, it would be nearly the perfect time to devil Arthur while he's still vulnerable. Though it would hardly be appreciated. (And since he does very much enjoy this… sleeping arrangement.)

Taking pity on the other and now loudly groaning man, Merlin pulls himself into an upright position, sliding his fingers over the bare nape of Arthur's neck. Massaging down on softer, paler skin lightly.

"It's alright to admit it was a bad decision on your part," he says, not managing to keep the teasing note from his voice anyway, smirk now visible. "How about I find you Gaius' remedy? That should perk you up."

Merlin begins shoving away the thin layer of sheets and then quilted blanket, leaving a firm, lingering squeeze on Arthur's neck before standing. The morning sunlight casts with muted grays, typical for early December and the chilling quality of the weather.

Even with blinding, throbbing pain clouding most of Arthur's senses, he can practically _feel_ Merlin laughing at him. He's a cruel, idiotic man, and it's completely Merlin's fault he was like this. At least, that's how Arthur deciding to see it.

Arthur groans into the sheets, belatedly realising any words now come out as garbled noise. He stopped trying when warm, gentle fingers pressed against the nape of his neck, causing Arthur to let out a small sigh of relief. That felt surprisingly _good_ , as long as Merlin didn't move much higher.

Merlin rubs at his naked arms, shivering to himself. One of the bigger nightshirts hangs off one of the knobs to the bed-frame.

Quickly, Merlin pulls it on, leaving a seconds-glimpse of his dark, winding tattoo against his shoulder-blade before the pinstriped material buttons up.

"I'll be a moment," comes an automatic response, just after Merlin finds a pair of clean underwear and shoves his fringe out of his face. Despite the bit of a mess on his outer thigh and also crusted to his stomach, Merlin thinks he go without hopping into the shower just yet.

The hallway is no warmer than the bedroom. As he can tell, the fireplace in the parlor-room must have only been cold ashes. His head jerks towards the direction of the kitchen, and then for the parlor. Ah, well, Arthur can wait another couple of minutes for a miracle cure to his headache, can't he?

Something feels increasing _off_ as Merlin heads in the opposite path. His magic feels… itchy. There's no sophisticated word for it. Too _alert_.

The linen closet door gapes wide-open.

He hurries the rest of the distance, grabbing onto the folding door and heart leaping to his throat as Merlin sticks his head inside, looking around frantically.

Empty.

Gaius' cat bed is _empty_.

No.

Everything in his sight wavers in a panicked haze. He needs—

Merlin steps away from the tiny closet, right hand knuckling on the wood.

" _Arthur_!" he yells, voice cracking, thundering back.

The front door.

It's gaping open too.

The warlock comes to an abrupt halt, gazing at the sunlit entrance. No more than several feet outside, the dragon fledgling squirms in the grass, wriggling excitedly and crouching for a pounce. Her playmate—or soon-to-be-victim—a brownish toad staring ahead uninterested. It lets out a long-suffering warble of a croak as Tiamat's tail flicks attentively.

Merlin's knees go to jelly so suddenly with relief that he's almost certain he's going to end up splayed on the rug.

_Dear gods._

Just as quickly as panic and relief crashes into him, a sense of elation grapples at him, slowing his heartbeat and bringing a grin to him.

The dragon fledgling—wide awake now, alert with her open, gleaming yellow eyes and making curious growling noises as she attempts somewhat shy interaction with another living thing. She's—oh, she's _beautiful_.

*

Arthur remembers plenty enough about Gaius' remedies: foul as they were effective—which was _very_. Arthur almost told Merlin not to bother at the time, that it would just increase his chances of vomiting. He grunts again, sucking in a deep breath as Arthur tries to steady himself.

The quiet helps. No noise, no nothing at all except for his heartbeat _knocking_ about in his skull.

And then, Merlin _yells_ his name.

Just like that, it's all shattered. The _panic_ in his tone is what forces Arthur up into an upright position, eyes on the door. There's no more sound, and Arthur hauls himself up off the bed and onto his feet in a second. He searches blindly for a pair of trousers, tugging them up.

" _Merlin!_ "

Arthur forces back the pain bursting behind his eyes when he steps into the corridor.

Something's _wrong_. Was the sorceress back? Could she—?

His heart lurches, fingers gripping Merlin's shoulder as he stares at him.

Merlin's fingers curl to the material of his nightshirt, to the space above the right side of his chest, disregardful. So focused on her right outside the door, he did not hear Arthur's approaching footsteps or call of his name. But, Arthur snatching onto him, human warmth and presence, staring with outright worry lining his face, brings him back and wiped the amused grin off. Arthur's eyes are slightly bloodshot, making the blue of his irises an ugly ambiance of bright. The pain is still there, creeping in and out like invisible waves.

"Is that—?"

Is _that_ why Merlin shouted as if someone was _dying_? Arthur frowns, eyes narrowing.

Guilt swallows Merlin.

"S—" he starts, breath losing its momentum and sounding more like soft, exhaling gasps. "I—the door was open. The linen closet. I couldn't—I couldn't find her." Merlin pushes a hand over his temple anxiously, shaking his head and then gesturing to the cottage's door. "She was out there the whole time—I panicked."

"Naturally," Arthur drawls, irritation obvious.

Not even in this day and age can he get a _break_.

It's not an excuse, but it certainly isn't a lie. Arthur hardly can be convinced that it's a good reason to _panic_ as he did. Merlin glances away from the other man, bending down and clicking his tongue wetly to the roof of his mouth.

" _Cume æt mec_ ," he says, eyes on Tiamat as her tiny head lifts in the air, gazing at him. " _Cume_ ," Merlin says a little more firmly in her tongue, reaching a hand out, mouth softening.

The fledgling scampers to him through the entrance-way with her little wings tucked to herself.

He scoops her up, feeling her claws bear down a moment for purchase when Merlin's arms secure her, but not extending. She touches her head to the right side of his chest, sensing emptiness there and purring disappointed before his magic soothes her, _nurses_ her.

Her scales barely have any of the compactness of their older kin, but the astoundingly red colour and lustrous quality is stunning. Of all the dragon eggs Merlin called to life, Aithusa's color was _second_ rare.

This is _actually_ happening. Not that Merlin doubts the last few days of _obtaining_ the egg, and then using his Dragonlord call, and then shutting her in a dark, enclosed space until full strength… perhaps it hasn't sunk in with the rest of the winding chaos of Merlin's day-to-day life.

(Better than spending four months on a narrow ship with only the company of rotting-toothed men looking for a decent poke, he supposes. Or living off rats. Or taking a blunt axe to the neck repeatedly while tied down and still able to scream.)

(Probably shouldn't mention any of that out loud either.)

The dragon looks incredibly smaller and _smaller_ the closer it is, and Arthur eyes them both warily. It squirms, feathers puffing, and for a moment Arthur wonders if its _claws_ dig into Merlin's skin.

When Merlin glances into Arthur's sudden expression of ' _what now?_ ', he looks back with equal hesitation and blows some air audibly between his lips.

"… Think I need a drink," Merlin mutters to himself, face pinched, turning at the heel and heading towards the kitchen.

He expected Arthur to follow.

The dragon fledgling takes a happy perch to the counter-top, tilting her head this way and that with uncanny animal-like behavior, plainly observing as Merlin heads into the cabinet and mixes together Gaius' instant remedy.

"Remember, hold your nose," Merlin advises, looking pointedly at Arthur as he hands the spoonful of noxious, dark green herb blend.

At the mention of a drink, Arthur scowls.

His mind runs sluggish, trying to process the new occupant in the house all while internally groaning, so it takes him a moment to realise he's not alone when Arthur sits down at the counter. He slowly turns his head, staring at the brightly colored, miniature creature watching Merlin with intensity.

 _Surreal_ isn't quite the word for it, but it's the only one that would come to mind.

When Merlin hands him the spoon, the familiar smell of the vile potion hits Arthur like a sack of mortar bricks. His stomach and mouth aches with displeasure at what's to come. Still, Arthur refuses to whine about it, and scowls further before swallowing it down. His expression scrunches.

Arthur grunts in displeasure before turning and reaching for a cup.

"Still bloody disgusting," he mutters, as Arthur fills it with cool water, downing it in attempt to get the taste out. As always, it _doesn't_ work. Despite everything, the throbbing in his forehead already begins fading, and Arthur can turn his head without wanting to sink down onto the floor. That's an _accomplishment_ , at least.

Merlin waits for the varnished wooden mixing spoon back, pressing his lips together in bland and cruel amusement at the disgust written in Arthur's expression. It's only _mildly_ disappointing that his father figure couldn't be here.

He got the feeling that Gaius often privately enjoyed their dramatic reactions to his stronger tonics.

"It could be made of dung for all it mattered, but it wouldn't matter, because the remedy _works_ ," he says, dropping the wooden spoon in the sink and turning off the cold water Arthur left running. Wiping his hands on the sides of his over-sized nightshirt .

Those aren't really the words he meant to get out, or imply, and it seems a bit too late with the appearance of a now somewhat horrified look from the other man. Merlin's hands busy themselves with the taupe-labeled bottles emptied of their contents, shoving them away.

" _What—_?"

Merlin then responds between indignant and bristled embarrassment, lip curling up, "Oi, if you _seriously_ think I'd feed you dung—"

A loud noise from the stainless counter-top, jerking Merlin's head round and cutting him off for the moment.

Tiamat crows for Merlin's attention impatiently, the reddish feathers on the spine of her tail flattening down. His hands still in place, his left in the cabinet.

"What is it?… Hmm, are you hungry, lass?" he asks, eyeing her nearby.

When she only stares vacantly at his bizarre and non-rumbling English words, her luminous, glow eyes wide, Merlin shuts the cabinet drawers firmly. He tries again more gently, " _Andleofan. Bist ðu hyngrest for æs?_ [Food. Are you hungry for meat?]"

Another crow, this time far happier and agreeable.

Merlin's face softens visibly. " _Dæl_ , [Good,]" he whispers, more or less to himself. Merlin can pull out the gutted animal carcasses he had been preparing from the freezer as soon as he got a decent shower in. Smelling like his dried come as well as Arthur's holds _zero_ appeal.

Which meant breakfast needs to be quick one.

It doesn't throw Merlin off that he so easily interacts with the fledgling, being in harmony with her instincts and understanding her infant communication. Though it'll be some time before she would being able to use her vocal cords. Merlin's so grateful and relieved that Tiamat understood her _own_ mother tongue.

The language of the Old Religion—used for summonings or for enchantments, or even worship—and the dragons aren't very contrary to it. In fact, they likely aren't at all. Dragons are nature-born embodiments of the highest, strongest and purest form of the earth's magic—it would only make sense the two were the same.

Three hundred years (or was it four hundred and ninety three…?) since Merlin took a heavy physical blow and sacrificed his humanity. And yet… he still thinks at times he's adjusting. After all, what was _three hundred years_ to the immortal existence of nearly two thousand?

That long without conversing with another dragon, even if it's one-sided for the moment.

From the counter, Tiamat flexes her little, pale red wings and sniffs the air delicately.

Merlin grins silently to himself.

It feels a bit liberating… to have the chance again.

Meanwhile, Arthur isn't much for conversation, taking a more honest interest with his empty glass. Whatever Arthur's seeing, or imagining, he's beginning to redden his lip from chewing.

Arthur stopped himself from glaring at the overly persistent animal. For a moment, Arthur wondered if he had ever been this close to a magical creature like this and it hadn't tried to _kill_ him.

Merlin's deep, rattling voice had Arthur's attention then. He heard it a _few_ times, of course. Or at least Arthur believed he did. Merlin sounded so incredibly _not_ Merlin, and yet… it's very much Merlin. Arthur didn't know how to describe it.

The language didn't bellow or rip from his throat. It was just _Merlin_ , only deeper, with an accent to his tongue nearly unfamiliar to Arthur.

Arthur forces himself to take another sip, ignoring the heat blooming in his chest. Perhaps he's a little too eager to find _appealing_ things about Merlin after last night.

With the toaster plugged in, lighting up from within, Merlin unbags several bread slices and placed them in the designated slots, weaving his end of the morning sunlit kitchen with practiced steps. " _Behé_ —?" Merlin coughs aloud, voice no longer baritone lower than usual, "—Want any brown bread?" he asks, eyes on Arthur.

From behind him, the toaster makes a suspicious grumbling.

Arthur leans backwards as if unnerved, his eyes on the item. "What the hell was that?" he demands accusatory.

"What was _what_?"

"Did that… _thing_ speak?"

Merlin rolls his eyes.

"It's a toaster, Arthur—a kitchen appliance," he explains. "And _no_ , toasters _can't_ speak." Merlin shakes his head. "This one grumbles when it's irritated."

"When it's…?" Arthurs stares at him like Merlin's taking the mick out of him. He doesn't appear to be _at all_. "Does that happen… _often_?"

"Listen, prat—do you want any or not?"

The slices of brown bread pop out of the toaster, and Merlin fetches a small, blunt knife, lying it down on the plate stacked with the slightly burnt toast. As he twists off the lid to the new jar of raspberry jam—no, not struggling with it at all; Merlin is a very modern creature, despite his age… experienced and _dignified_ —Arthur sharply turns down the offer of any food.

Merlin's once tensed shoulders loosen, giving him the impression of deflating.

"…Uhm," he says, blinking. Keeping a neutral expression.

It will take another hour before the frozen, raw meat of the gutted wild turkey thaws out. Merlin supposes thoughtfully, hands spread and grasping at one of the kitchen stools. He can start feeding her smaller pieces, just to see if she would turn her nose up at it.

Besides worrying about the fledgling's reaction to introducing her first meal, he's bloody _freezing_ in just his underwear and the cotton-blue pinstripe shirt.

Arthur absently runs a hand over his lower chest when Merlin isn't paying attention, suddenly feeling disgusting and _exposed_. He straightens up, angling himself towards the hallway. "I think I may take one of those _showers_ of yours."

"Alright," Merlin replies, voice flat. Just before Arthur disappears completely into the hallway, the warlock speaks up with some urgency, "Oh, and… Arthur?"

As soon as he has the other man's attention, Merlin's lips grow into a faint curl.

"You mind stay out of the medicine cabinet this time?" he teases.

" _Stay—_?"

Arthur's jaw tightens.

The little…

*

Arthur stayed in the shower for a while, letting the warm water run over him . It helps soothe the remaining bit of headache and bitter taste in his mouth. It's certainly better than the chilly kitchen who was currently inhabited by an ancient dragon _baby_ and its overly excited new parent.

He's being stubborn and he knows it. The thing is harmless—practically a cat with a damned set of wings. But those golden eyes are _sharp_ despite how young it is, and Arthur has seen what dragons grew into. Magical creatures in his experience never tended to side with humans.

This is going to take time to get used to.

But he _trusts_ Merlin's instincts.

Luckily, the water calms his mind. Arthur focuses on washing the shampoo out of his hair. Scrubbing off his chest makes him feel better too, and he finds his mind _drifting_ away, to the memories of last night. To _Merlin_ , and how soft his lips were, opening up sloppily against Arthur's chin. How he moaned _breathless_ , rocking up against Arthur's hips.

Arthur's fingers trace down his wet abs, grasping loosely around his cock beginning to stir.

Merlin knows exactly how to touch him, all of his sensitive spots, like they've been doing this for _years_. But he's yet to know how Merlin would feel _inside_ , every clenching muscle and jerking thrust between them, being saddled by Merlin's long, lean legs. Arthur's never been _adverse_ to the idea of lying with a man in either a giving position or _taking_.

The air is _stifling_ with hot steam and Arthur's face burns, scrunching up as he works himself in a decent rhythm.

He _would_ like to feel that with Merlin, being stretched open, lazily kissing and arching under Merlin's circular motions. Being _filled_ up to the brim. It's a bloody fantastic image, and Arthur leans himself with one arm to the shower wall, pressing his mouth to his forearm. It's barely a few minutes before he's released, fluid dripping into the loo's drain.

Lord have _mercy_.

Arthur towels off, freezing once he's out. He wraps it around his waist, padding into Merlin's bedroom. He throws on the pair of trousers and a shirt from the dresser. The tight fit against his shoulders allows him to wonder if it's his or Merlin's.

Merlin let out a sigh of ease when the hot water rattles off. Arthur does end up wandering his way back to the kitchen, probably seeing as the only other (mildly agreeable) occupant of the cottage is currently there. No longer half-buttoned and half-zipped in Merlin's black dress pants (they had looked oddly/tight/ on Arthur earlier).

"Oi, good," Merlin says, straightening up immediately. "I _just_ remembered our wager from the faire. Due to all the… excitement that went on… But now that things have settled down for the moment…" He takes a seat on the kitchen stool, comfortably stretching out, eyes on Arthur. "Need I remind you, I _won_ the archery tournament without the use of magic."

"Therefore…" Merlin's chin raises slightly, blue eyes crinkling with his mouth pursing in a little grin. "Everything you'll need for the next two weeks is in the second closet outside the bedroom."

Arthur's eyes glare at him, hot and bright. The colour, a touch similar to the underbelly of storm-clouds veiling an endless midsummer.

Despite the stiffness of his body, the rigid, inward hold of Arthur's shoulders and how Arthur's jaw tenses visibly as he speaks—Camelot's king really just needs those eyes to convey his emotion.

"You've got to be joking." Arthur says, crossing his arms. " _Now?_ Really?"

(Arthur could be a sore loser when he wanted to be in the past—which wasn't truly often. He often exaggerated it for show, to his knights, to his friends. But honor and noble cause ran through his veins, preventing Arthur from abuse of his power over others or corrupted beliefs.)

Merlin doesn't prickle back at the glare, or feel offense. It's a simple wager they fall into: one won, one lost. Arthur can grumble about it all he liked, complain or stare outraged, he still _lost_. And he will still do what Merlin says (or rather _said_ previously)—which is what probably makes this very moment so damn amusing.

One of Merlin's arms and an elbow slides across the counter-top as he leans towards it, still seated on the wooden stool. He curls his bony fingers in, grin vanished, pillowed by his cheek as Merlin glances the other man up-and-down. But very, very carefully. And slowly.

"Why not?" he says willfully to Arthur's question. Lips quirking humored. "I can get some food ready for the afternoon when you take a break and mind the little one." Merlin finally meets Arthur's stare, fingers uncurling and pressing lightly to his jowl. "While you get your hands dirty." This is bordering insolence, possibly dipping its toes in it, but the measured astonishment on Arthur's face is completely worth it.

All deliberation, Merlin reiterates his last point, "The bucket and floor brush are both in the closet, as well as the all-purpose cleaner. Second door next to the loo. You can fill the bucket with water from there."

Arthur's eyes narrows again.

"Fine." he answers stiffly. He keeps his arms crossed, but releases the tension as to not look _too_ put off. "Enjoy being a _nursemaid,"_ Arthur shoots back, then turns and walks down the hallway. His footsteps probably heavier than they need to be.

Even with the churlish remark and Arthur nearly stomping his way out of the kitchen, Merlin feels the briefest twinge of self-satisfaction.

(And the most peculiar sense of role-reversal.)

He arranges up from his lean, saying nothing and watching the other man leave before picking up a slice of the burnt toast, thumbnail and a fingernail grazing the hardened crust and shaving away bits.

Merlin glances down a moment at it, contemplatively, before tossing the browned bread back onto the plate and shoving out of his stool.

The loss of appetite is contagious, he guesses. Not that it has to do entirely with Arthur. Eating is… more of a habit. Force of habit, if being completely honest. Much like sleep is a luxury, not necessity. Neither are really necessary to Merlin's 'survival'. Not anymore.

Being stripped of the remnants of his humanity, and with his countless years of living, those habits used to be done as a prompting. Eating, sleeping, bleeding, feeling desire for another person. A reflex. A fanciful imagining that Merlin could remain as he was, as he had been—even if a hundred thousand more years had passed. He could _not_ lose sight of what was important. And that was always his destiny—to keep magic alive. Be see to it and he and Arthur would make it so.

And now that Arthur has returned, and even with this newly blossomed aspect of their deep and unbreakable friendship… he can't help still feeling a sense of bitter disappointment in himself. In not being what Arthur deserved. Not being the old-Merlin. Not being close to _human_.

A sting of harsh pain brings Merlin back to the immediate moment, as he realizes with a start he has been clenching his teeth down on the tip of his tongue inside his own mouth, hard enough to bruise it.

Meanwhile, Arthur spends a good few long moments staring at the rubbish inside, most of it looking familiar enough. Brooms and buckets thankfully haven't changed over the years. "What on _earth_ do you want me to do with this?" he calls down the hallway, hauling the bucket with him into the bathroom.

Merlin rubs his tongue wetly against the roof of his mouth, in attempts of pacifying the soreness, and looked up at nothing in particular when Arthur yells his question.

He goes for the kitchen doorway leading to the corridor, yelling back, "Fill the bucket with soap and water and use the floor brush to scrub the dirt! If that doesn't work, use the all-purpose cleaner! The instructions are on the back!"

Agitated by the tone in Merlin's voice and the strangeness of his English language, the dragon fledgling tucks her wings in and chatters loudly at him, her claws beginning to gorge marks into the counter-top.

" _Hit sy fremung, lýtling deórling_ (It is alright, little one)," he murmurs, stepping back and meeting her eyes firmly. Tiamat's orange-yellow eyes search him, as if rooting out the truth, and Merlin disarms her with a heartfelt smile, chuckling when she nudges his arm impatiently.

Merlin cradles her back to him with one arm, barely feeling the weight but knowing her tiny, feathered head rest comfortably on his shoulder.

He walks them inside the loo, not assured with the possibility of leaving Tiamat on her own with either a surly, distracted Arthur who wants nothing to do with her or Gaius if he happens to brave the other regions of the cottage instead of holing up under Merlin's bed.

Another recent miracle—there is still hot water. Maybe Arthur _can_ be taught current-era manners after all.

Merlin lets it wash over him, muscles uncoiling, having thrown off the nightshirt and shutting the glass door, and then grabs a washcloth and the unscented body wash.

Wiping himself down, removing the dried, crusted mess to his thigh and to his abdomen felt soothing and methodical.

(Not that the events resulting in such had been unpleasant or worth slighting—naturally, Merlin wouldn't agree to that at all. And in _fact_ , further promises of sexual intimacy were encouraged.)

He runs the damp washcloth under the stream of hot water, holding out with both hands, midnight-colored fringe dripping.

It turns out the shower (though needed, and feels _amazing_ and warms Merlin's skin) will be short-lived, as Tiamat scampers right outside the shower door, making a distressed half-growling noise.

On instinct, his magic hovers out to her. The world suddenly spins on its axis as Merlin catches himself from falling over, pushing an open, pinkened hand against the slippery wall and closing his eyes. The sound of water dims out. The sound of everything else but the thudding of Merlin's now frantic heartbeat dims, too. It must have been—it _has_ to have been the choking, thick quality of the humidity making him lightheaded. Feeling so drained. He blindly switches off the water.

A bigger, more insistent thud opens Merlin's eyes once more. The fledgling headbutts the glass, as if signaling him to pay attention.

Ah, _right_. Most of his dragon kin are adverse to water, despite its temperature. She must have believed Merlin was in danger of hurting himself and somehow unaware of it. And giving him a reminder.

He lets the door slide away with slow intent, eyeing Tiamat backing away cautiously.

" _Hit be ne áwierdnes mic, áþgehát_ (It doesn't hurt me, promise)."

Merlin could have been mistaken but he thought he may have glimpsed skepticism in her animal-like expression at the statement.

And somewhere in the back of his mind, he wonders.

*

Merlin has a feeling that if Arthur ever chanced a good long look at his bedroom closet, he might have an aneurysm. Out of sheer horror.

Or what he assumes would be horror because Arthur is a posh git and a royal prat and is used to caring about 'fine clothes'. One rack to the far left of Merlin's closet is packed to the brim with Christmas sweaters—which Merlin 'supposed' are rather tacky and gaudy.

But he likes them. They are fleecy and cozy and Arthur is a _prat_.

Out of the shower and toweled down in the privacy of his room, Merlin in only jeans combs his fingers through his hair and buttons on a navy blue/red plaid shirt before yanking on one of the sweaters.

The blue of the Christmas sweater is a shade too light for the navy. Part of the sweater is also pickle green with the patchworked colors separated by domino-colored stripes. The knitted designs embroidered all over it are a cartoony Santa, a reindeer with a bulbous red nose, a string of multicolored fairy-lights—and it all hemmed with fluffy white.

Merlin's fingers yank at a stray thread when he hears a crash. An angry one. Or perhaps it is something being flung purposefully.

His eyebrows furrow.

What the _hell_ is Arthur doing…?

Tiamat had also hears it, cocking her head at the closed bedroom door. She blinks up at Merlin, rumbling out an inquisitive noise as he strokes a line down her back, fingers gently brushing her ruby-red feathers.

" _Bíedest_ (behave)," Merlin tells her absently, going for the door. He thrusts his head out, glancing down the corridor and finding no one.

The parlor. Arthur has to have been that way cleaning.

He quietly shuts the bedroom door on his way out, venturing out to where Arthur most likely will be. And stares in mild confusion.

"Everything alright…?"

*

 


	40. Chapter 40

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO THAT INFECTION I WAS TALKING ABOUT? Yeah, it kicked my whole entire ass. BUT I'M BACK. Are we seriously up to 40 chapters???? Holy damn! This is kinda awesome. Hope you guys are loving this and any thoughts/comments appreciated!
> 
> Half of this fic wouldn't exist without [marlena_darling](http://archiveofourown.org/users/marlena_darling/pseuds/marlena_darling) and I wanna say thank you for taking this journey with me and you've been a best friend to me. I love you lots and this is ours.

*

Arthur doesn't bother trying to suppress an eye roll.

He knew _how_ to clean a bloody floor! That much hasn't changed since his time. It's the _all-purpose cleaner_ that baffles him, and what Merlin actually wants him to do that makes him question it.

Well, he isn't about to allow that mistake again.

Arthur grumbles to himself as he hauls the bucket back out of the loo, heavy with warm water with soap suds bubbling on top. Arthur sets it down only for a moment to grab the cleaner and the brush. Then, he heads out into the corridor, eyes scanning the floor with a persistent frown.

It's not difficult to figure out where he should clean—everything's a bit of a mess from the past several days. No one has made time to clean up the soil and mud dragged, or even the articles of clothing kicked haphazardly into the corners of the parlor. Arthur even spots little, muddy claw marks on the wood by the door. His expression drops in mild irritation as the bucket once again finds its place on the floor. It isn't as if he has never picked up his _own_ clothes before. Besides, the reasoning for them being there outweighs the chore.

The coats he tries to fold somewhat before throwing them over the back of the chair, but his shirt is already wrinkled to the point where he doesn't bother, only tosses it on the couch.

Arthur stares at the bucket for a long moment before finally dropping to his knees, sitting back on his haunches with a sigh.

Part of him wonders if Merlin observes from the doorway, with smug smile and eyes bright with satisfaction. Arthur takes a quick glance in that direction, a snappy remark ready on his tongue, but discovers it empty. In fact, the retreating sound of footsteps and a door closing down the hall signals to Arthur that he is well and truly left alone to do this.

He's a bit surprised Merlin trusts him to do the job correctly. The former king busies himself with dropping the wet scrubbing brush onto the floor, one hand gripping the floor while the other cleans. It takes him a while and a whole lot of grumbling to figure out the right technique (circling only brings the grime and dirt _back_ ), but with a slow reluctance, Arthur finds himself drifting into it.

His irritation with the dragon situation fades, though his frown persists when he scrubs the claw marks away. A dull ache forms in his shoulder muscle, but at least the floors appear less dirty. The silence in Arthur's head is a welcome break. With his focus so directed on one task, it's easy for the rest of his mind to drift, finally having the time to take it all in.

Arthur thinks about the night before. The cold bite of winter wind mixed with icy water from the fountain. Merlin's hero act for the young girl at the restaurant. He meant to ask _more_ about that, how exactly Merlin learned all the medicinal phrases that were far _beyond_ what Merlin could have possibly learned from Gaius.

There are _so_ _many_ questions to ask Merlin beyond the ones Arthur already has.

The lights strung up around the tow, for _Christmas_ as Merlin had told him. Arthur still doesn't fully understand it, not really, but even he could admit they were _beautiful_. Guinevere would have loved them.

His pace hesitates, his queen's face materializing. She truly would have loved it, _all_ of this. Arthur has a feeling she would have been able to adapt far more quickly than he. He always wants to ask Merlin _more_ about her, how Guinevere's life went on despite how much Merlin already described to him.

Arthur knows better than to do so when he glimpses that wistful look in Merlin's eye. Also given the new… circumstances in their relationship, Arthur doesn't want to seem like a lover longing for an old companion.

Because he _isn't_. Arthur loved Guinevere, and always would. But love was not meant to fill _one_ place in your heart…

He isn't sure how his clarity suddenly becomes so clouded by emotion, and the intensity in which it floods catches Arthur off guard. Wariness. Passion. Excitement. Panic. Arthur's eyes widens, sitting up straight. Had he said anything last night—?

His musing cuts off when Arthur collides with the lamp table behind him, a curse escaping as Arthur quickly turns to try to steady the table. That is a losing battle. Luckily, Arthur manages to grab the lamp even as the small wooden table clatters to the ground.

" _Bugger—_!"

When had he gotten over here?

Arthur rises from his kneeling position, hauling the table and setting the lamp back on it as he stands. He huffs out a breath, glancing towards the floor. The bucket's on its side, water pooling out with suds bubbling. _Brilliant_. Just brilliant. And of course, Merlin has to pick now to come out.

" _Alright_!" Arthur replies, hand reaching up to run through the hair on the back of his neck. Blue eyes blink, head turning to look at the bucket. "Everything's… alright." He'll clean it up, get the mop from the other room. The floor is mostly taken care of, anyways.

 *

Perhaps his first assumption had been incorrect—Arthur doesn't appear to be destroying anything. Or having some sort of fit of anger.

(To be fair, Camelot's king long since outgrew such childish and bratty actions—at least, a few years after Merlin came into his service. Unless they had to do _with_ Merlin. And then throwing objects, whether they be moderately heavy or maybe a couple swan-down pillows, at the back of Merlin's head was satisfactory for Arthur.)

In his hands, the other man corrects the overturned, rosewood table-stand in the parlor, being overly cautious as he does so. As if it may spontaneously combust at any given moment. When Merlin speaks up, peering in through the corridor with a mix of confusion and faint intrigue, a hot flush of color dances across Arthur's face.

Merlin's eyes locates the bucket of now begrimed, soapy water puddling the floor panels.

"Yes, of course, ' _alright_ ' is it," he repeats Arthur's statement, not bothering to conceal the sense of glee in his tone. Cheeks dimpling with a half-smile. "I thought something—dunno—might have fell over and gotten everywhere."

And of course, there's the _look_. The look Arthur expected but dreaded seeing, and the second Merlin's smile grows, Arthur's eyes narrows.

"Everything is _alright_ because I can _handle_ it." Arthur reiterates, emphasising as his posture stiffens up.

It was an _accident_ , one that he doesn't want to rehash to Merlin seeing as its cause isn't one he feels sure of bringing up

Merlin doesn't mean to wound Arthur's pride or any of that nonsense. The lighthearted teasing is normally part of their repertoire, but this time Arthur looks less than inclined to engage back with Merlin. It could have been the insinuation of possible incompetence or lack of responsibility (though Merlin hardly means it).

He guesses Arthur won't appreciate any further teasing about his clumsiness, let alone be inclined to fetching a mop without complaining to high heaven. Magical instinct swept out. Golden-glow colour flashes against the iris of Merlin's eyes, as he blinks, subtly jerking his chin to the watery, foul mess. Within seconds, it vanishes from sight, bucket empty and dry.

"Why is it that I'm always cleaning up after your messes, cabbagehead?" Merlin poises the question less like a question, and more of a knowing, soft utterance, raising an eyebrow.

Arthur stares down at the dry floor, wondering if he would ever become familiar with such occurrences happening. Perhaps he already has.

"You're _always_?" Arthur says in exasperation, turning to gaze at him. He can't help but feel a little bit indignant. Arthur had done a fairly decent job _until_ the bucket spill. "Please, Merlin—"

A loud yowling towards the other end of the corridor, towards his bedroom spins Merlin around—and it had been a _very_ bad idea. That same floating, uncontrolled sensation of the world tilting the wrong way returns full-force, but fortunately Merlin is closer to something stable, fingers spanning to the wall as it holds his weight.

He doesn't know if Arthur is paying attention to him or not, but it will be nice if his friend _isn't_.

Wet warmth runs from one of his nostrils, and Merlin sniffs, not liking the scent.

He wipes his sweater sleeve hard against his upper lip. It comes back smudged with fresh blood, staining the fleecy blue.

Merlin stares down at that ugly, vivid colour—blackening and stiffening the fabric— as the lightheaded spinning finally ceases. _How_ …?

"Merlin?"

Arthur put a firm hand on his shoulder, standing close in attempt to help with his balance all while making sure the other man isn't about to collapse.

"What's happened—are you—?"

The change had been so sudden, as brilliantly _quick_ as the glow of Merlin's golden eyes. One moment he had been teasing Arthur (to his annoyance) and the next, the warlock looked ready to keel over.

In general, Merlin feels like shit. But especially with a bloodstained sleeve now doing the glaring, his legs and knees turning jellied.

He hears Arthur, but some of the words are droned out. Like hearing them through a ton of water pressure. Merlin sways again, but feels a little better when the other man presses into his space. A little more alert. "Not sure," Merlin whispers, taking the plainly honest route, bowing his face from view and wiping again under his nose with the same sleeve and finding more blood trickling from his right nostril.

Arthur curses out, muttering, holding the side of Merlin's face and helping it lift.

"Let me _see_ it..."

The dizziness had been similar to Merlin's experience in the shower... but what caused it? Merlin tries taking a step forward, remembering the angry yowling down the hall and mildly worried about what caused it. The sudden nosebleed he can worry about later.

Merlin shoulders off Arthur's hand on him, pulling away from the other, not looking in his direction and not caring to know if Arthur's expression is disapproval or concern. He keeps one hand sliding on the corridor wall, taking a new step. That one—not so successful, as that jelly in Merlin's knees quakes.

Arthur stands there for a moment, watching after him in shock. His irritation bursts. This time, he uses both hands to stop Merlin.

But if anything at all, Merlin counts on his stubbornness to keep him upright. And Arthur, naturally, when a set of large hands pushes against the back of Merlin's shoulders, Arthur's breath to his ear.

"M'fine—can walk," he insists, voice gone a bit croaking.

"No, I don't think you can," Arthur argues, gripping tighter as he moves to step in Merlin's way. "Don't be an idiot. I can see your knees shaking from here." He slides an arm around Merlin's waist, pressing close before continuing towards the bedroom. "You're lying down once we get you to a bed, understood?"

The constant wobble may have strictly been in Merlin's vision, instead of his steps. His legs are more grounded, less tottering, as Merlin pulls more air into his lungs with deepening breathes and evened out.

Merlin rubs at his nose again, sniffing more audibly, rolling his sweater sleeve around with his fingers to wipe at his dark red-crusted nostril with a clean portion.

The sight of blood or losing a teaspoon of it isn't enough to make him lightheaded or unfocused—not after witnessing the complexity and horrific spectacle of modern injuries, not after gun-slew battlefields, not after killing with a cold heart. Not after the dead of those he loved. (So the mystery— _illness_ or otherwise despite his immortality, is both unanticipated and unwelcomed, as well as worrisome.)

But he isn't the only one on edge it seems. Arthur has been paying attention to Merlin. He can practically feel the aftereffects of earlier bristling, when a vacant expressioned Merlin openly rejected any helpful assistance.

Arthur is dearly trying to _help_ him, he understands that.

Merlin doesn't mean to show any stirred up animosity. It's just… this is… an awful sense of _inconvenience_. Too much happening in some intended, chaotic pattern. It hardly feels like a damn fortnight since Arthur emerged unscathed and whole-headed from Avalon's waters, and since the medieval faire with the spring green egg, and since Merlin learned and gladly relearned the slick taste on Arthur's mouth.

Slightly stung by the 'idiot' comment, he grunts at Arthur. (It may have sounded more _pathetically_ helpless than Merlin would like to admit.) But he allows his weight to be taken by Arthur, straightening up with a firm, muscular arm locked around him, aiding him on.

"Not tired," Merlin says, but lacking any heat in his voice or conviction. He, however, does snap to attention as they open the bedroom door, signaling Arthur to halt walking them by gently slapping an open hand against the other man's abdomen, holding it there.

They spy the dragon fledging peering curiously under the patterned, duo-colored skirt of Merlin's bed. Another round of angry, spitting yowling—stars and heavens, _Gaius_ —comes into existence.

" _Oþ mec_ (to me)!" Merlin says aloud, the language of dragons that moment accompanied by hard syllables and a stern, barking command.

Arthur leads him to sit down on the mattress as Tiamat warbles softly in effort to pull herself up the side of the bed. Instead of bothering to use her stout, red arms, she nosily shreds the bed-covers with the prominent, ivory-colored claw tips at the top of her translucent, reddish wings, clumsily somersaulting herself once on the bed.

The innocent vestige of it could have made Merlin forget about the ruined sheets. Not that the sheets are incredibly important.

Merlin frowns. " _Ic áboden ðu æt bíedest_ (I told you to behave)," he mutters.

The fledgling croons in response.

He sighs.

"She and Gaius will need to be separated if this is how it's going to be," Merlin tells Arthur gravely, staring up at him while absently touching Tiamat's spine-feathers when she joins his side, his fingers smoothing them down and the motion earns with a low, content purr from her.

Merlin casts a look over his shoulder.

"I don't want to remove Gaius from a space he feels safe in. He can stay under the bed; I'll just move to the—" Upon attempting to push off the quilted bed, to stand once more, Merlin immediately sits back down, eyes bleary and rocking in place, grinding his forehead to a palm. "—couch, _gods_ this is annoying." A dry laugh.

He's a mess. At least, in Arthur's mind, Merlin is. Compared to this morning, when sun lit the pale expanse of his body and he radiated warmth. Even after the panic with the dragon, Merlin radiated _more_ life than Arthur had seen in a long time.

Now, Arthur is afraid to let go. He has seen Merlin in worse shape than this, of course. Arthur has seen Merlin on the brink of _death_ at the very beginning of their friendship, and vowed never to see it again. (Part of him wonders if Merlin made those same vows).

It's _blood_ on Merlin's face. He's bleeding and _weak_ , and this isn't supposed to be happening.

Blue eyes flares, jaw setting in response to the feeling of his stomach twisting. Ancient warlock or not, Arthur knows this can;t be good. Something as simple as cleaning up water isn't that _powerful_ of an enchantment that it would hurt Merlin.

" _Merlin_ …"

He knows convincing Merlin to stay won't work, even if it would be best. The dragon is priority to Merlin. Arthur can see it.

After a moment, he releases a long exhale, moving closer as he helps Merlin back up onto his feet. Arthur curls an arm around his waist, the other pressing to Merlin's stomach.

"Let's get you back, then."

Merlin isn't excessively heavy; there's no real struggle in getting him out the room. At least, no problems with _Merlin_.

The little, scaly beast is _another_ case.

It crawled onto Merlin's shoulders at some point, unhappy with the jerky movements, and Arthur could hear the noises of protest echoing in his ear. About halfway to the settee is when Arthur feels dragon claws on his shoulder. His head snaps up, narrowed eyes meeting gold ones.

"Keep _off_ ," Arthur growls out.

Whether the dragon understands him or not Arthur isn't certain. But claws retracted and the fledgling returns onto Merlin, which is good enough for now.

After helping lower Merlin onto the settee, Arthur gets up, hands returning to his hips. "I'll get you some water. Stay here and rest." The _stay_ here deliberately noted.

He returns with the glass of water before picking up the cleaning supplies, deciding he is very well _done_ for the day. By the time Arthur cleans them off and back in the closet, Merlin's eyes are closed. His chest rising and falling steady. Not _tired_ , his arse.

Arthur drops a blanket over Merlin, careful to spread it out while the animal curled on Merlin's chest fidgets.

Which leaves Arthur on his own for the evening. It feels _odd_.

The day had taken such a turn from what Arthur expected, especially after the night before. Instead of basking in what had been a whirlwind of oncoming change, Merlin is asleep on the couch with a baby dragon while Arthur hides away in the library and explores.

It's a treasure trove of _memories_ , to sum up the experience. He spends longer than he meant to in there, flipping through books and going through the trinkets and boxes scattered around. Some are eerily _familiar_ , ghosts risen from the corners of his mind, and others fill in gaps of the centuries since his own time.

Arthur eats eventually, peeking in on a still sleeping Merlin.

Finally, he ends up in the large bed (on the side less shredded and decidedly _clean_ ). It's warm and tidy, and Arthur finds himself dozing off.

*

This isn't a comforting thought. Being unable to stand upright on his own, grappling with a sense of lost equilibrium and nameless fatigue.

Even with Arthur there—a strong, familiar presence coupled with the pressure of a warm hand, steady but soft to Merlin's ribs as the blond man got them sorted—it hardly adds to the lack of reassurance when all Merlin can do is lean and mutter a few, curt words. And repeatedly swallow down a bad taste in his mouth from the continued spinning.

 _And_ be generally useless as can be on his feet.

But it does, actually, feel very nice to press back against Arthur's warmth and hear the lulled rhythm of another heartbeat just out of reach.

An ageless, mystical immortal doesn't always have the benefits of invulnerability. Perhaps, in a way, that is gifted to Merlin in sympathy for his plights and his losses—one small detail. Something grievously human. Merlin bled, but he did not waste away. Merlin burned, but he did not reduce to ash. Merlin suffered for years, but he did not _die_.

Experiencing pain is the closest to a reprieve—to the bone-cold grasp of death, or to the reminder of how he had been: A young, brave thing.

And he was _brave_ only because Merlin understood where he belong, fighting off monsters and rogue sorcerers and being poisoned and trampled and ripped open with swinging, iron weapons, for the sake of Camelot's safety and for peace. For Albion. For the true light of Albion.

Merlin had been able to carry himself for a long, long time. Through different eras, with injuries and crippling mental anguish alike. To be carried off physically and willingly by someone else… he'd need to get used to it. Not driven to instinct to recoil, not to scorn and privately ebb into the darkest, obsidian waters of Merlin's own self-loathing.

He misses Arthur's occasional grunt of effort, as well the heated exchange of looks between his two most precious persons (the third sulking back inside Merlin's bedroom and licking himself). But consider being thankful for it, as it may have halted their progress down the hall.

At the mention of water, Merlin's lips rub together and the walls of his throat construct, mimicking a gag. No… he doesn't think he would care for the idea of drinking water. Or anything to ingest, with some certainty of seeing it return with a vengeance. Merlin sinks down against the ratty couch cushions, albeit slowly, head resting on a mound of throw-pillows. He feels a lot better when closing his eyes.

Curling to the side of his neck, Tiamat purrs under his chin, adjusting herself into a loose ball of bright red feathers and too-soft, baby scales.

Merlin is half-tempted to ask Arthur to wake him before sunset so he can organize a meal before it grew too late in the day, before. … …

With a start, head slightly thudding, he wakes. Stormy blue eyes opening wide.

Merlin gazes around, neck craned, lying on his back. What…?

He looks at the ceiling, stone-made and gleaming with morning sunlight washing in from a parlor window. An elbow propping him up.

It's _morning_ — the tosspot. Why did Arthur let him sleep in?

Underneath the woolen blanket, that Merlin _knows_ full well had not been draped across him when he last was conscious, his legs and bare feet snug and heated overnight by his own body temperature.

Would be a shame to move now. But the fireplace is smothered with thick, grey remnants of last evening's attempt to combat the winter-fall. In fact, the parlor-room must have been bloody freezing outside of his cozy nest. Internally pondering it, weighing his positives and negatives, the urge to know Arthur's business—as always—outweighs it all.

Sitting up goes smoothly, he notes. No dry mouth. No lightheadedness. Merlin scoots his legs out from under Tiamat's weight, gently pushing the blanket away and only pausing when her nostrils flare briefly.

Yes, never tempt fate in waking the sleeping dragon—there is an anecdote in there somewhere. There has to be.

Merlin testd his legs, one hand on the couch's armrest, lifting up. Also goes smoothly. Nothing wobbling, knees made of knees and not jelly.

He finds another dry log for the parlor's fireplace and the matches nearby, striking one alight and waiting impatiently for the flames to rise, instead of the trickle of smoke currently hovering inside. Merlin rubs his hands, puffing air into them and against his spindly fingers.

… Where the heck is Arthur anyway?

Not that Merlin expects him to be crouched down in a freezing room, waiting for Merlin. Arthur would prefer to lounge out in a hot bath, or bundle up under some of his own blankets he stole.

Right, _of course_. Bedroom.

Shuffling away from the fireplace, he glances at the fledgling. She barely moves. Assured that Tiamat would sleep at least a bit longer without distraction, wrapped up entirely in the lingering warmth of Merlin's couch-blanket and his scent, the warlock silently creeps out.

Inside his room, luckily, Arthur is indeed there. Seemingly fast asleep, brow relaxed, and yes, he had stolen a majority of the blankets.

He can't help it—a tiny smile pulls at his mouth as Merlin snorts lightly and fondly at the image. Such a prat.

Not to be left abandoned to the chill of morning air, Merlin strips off his blue (and now partly bloodstained) Christmas sweater, leaving on the red and blue plaid button-up. He quickly maneuvers himself on the decent-sized bed, poking his limbs into the collection of blankets. The shredded, ruined sheets nowhere to be found (for the better). He is about to huddle down on the available empty space when Arthur's nose wrinkles in his sleep, and he groans aloud, beginning to thrash.

Damn—

Merlin reaches over, or rather _under_ since he's still halfway in the wool, multi-hued blankets, placing a heavy hand over Arthur's heart.

"Oi," he whispers, tracing his fingers and palm noticeably over the thin material of Arthur's shirt.

"Shh… it's just a dream, Arthur."

*

 


	41. Chapter 41

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I ended up getting hospitalized during my sudden, unplanned hiatus on this, and that was not fun. But it's a brand new year, and that means brand new chapters. My favorite parts of this story haven't been explored yet and I knew absolutely I needed to come back when I was able to. I'll be making another chapter update next week, but I figured I would give you guys a nice 7k chapter this time. Thanks to those who are sticking around and hello to any new faces! :)
> 
> Half of this fic wouldn't exist without [marlena_darling](http://archiveofourown.org/users/marlena_darling/pseuds/marlena_darling) and I wanna say thank you for taking this journey with me and you've been a best friend to me. I love you lots and this is ours.

*

Arthur decides at some point in the middle of the night during his shifting that he would have a serious discussion with Merlin about how bloody _cold_ he kept the cottage.

He drags nearly every blanket in sight with him, refraining from grabbing the one from the windowsill — only out of fear of how frigid the floor would be. Then again, most of the blankets had been drawn in subconsciously as he sleeps, arms reaching for the warmth that _should_ have been next to him, before settling for the next best thing.

Warmth soaks into his body slowly, but his mind is a different story.

 _Cold—_ it's all around him. Biting, spreading through his body and weighing him down. All Arthur can see is murky water moving around him, the bright sunlight dampened into a dull grayness that grows fainter and fainter. He can't fight it, can't get to the figures standing in the blotched out sunshine. The current keeps dragging him downward, and Arthur's limbs are too heavy to move. He's sinking.

His mouth opens, wanting to shout. He tries to thrash, but there's no sound. No bubbles rise to the surface, the waves do not change as he struggles. There's nothing he could do.

No, he can't just _give_ _up_ —

Arthur's body jerks, back arching in surprise as he's pulled out of his sleep by a low voice and the prominent feeling of hands on him. His brow furrows, eyes wide as a noise dies in his throat.

 _Merlin_.

It's only Merlin.

But, waking up Arthur has never been an easy chore. He often fought every inch of Merlin physically having to drag his arse out of the royal bed, determination stronger than his lack of finesse or muscle. Sometimes with Guinevere present, curled up on the same bed in her nightdress, smiling unabashed at the pair of them and laughing muffled to a pillow.

But this is seemingly worse— Merlin can't drag him out of this, or provide a sunny, dimpled smile and a witty one-liner at Arthur's expense; he can only stand vigil to the testament and internal struggle of Arthur's memories. His fears. Pain he keeps secreted away.

If there is _anything_ he could have done to prevent this...

Pale, spindly fingers continue their soothing pace, even as Arthur becomes aware of his surroundings, no longer thrashing. Merlin nearly feels each of Arthur's muscles going limp, as he sinks to the mattress, looking more tired than one should after a deep sleep.

Arthur's head sinks back into the pillow as his cheek presses into it. His eyes close, a tired sigh escaping Arthur as a hand scrubs over his face. "S'rry," Arthur grumbles, hand dropping back down to rest over Merlin's. He doesn't even remember what he was dreaming about, but the warmth feels incredibly reassuring.

Merlin wiggles down deeper into the heat of blankets and generally Arthur, still turned on his side to face the other man. He shakes his head, knowing.

"It's alright," Merlin replies, lips twitching up when one of Arthur's hands falls to his, squeezing benevolently.

Their fingers—pale and golden—slipping together a moment, fitting rather too perfectly.

"You're still having them?" The nightmares, he means. Merlin begins to suspect that Avalon's magic is no longer the cause of how intense they are to Arthur.

Then again, his king suffered a great deal before his untimely, slow death. Not only in the process of dying, but planning a war and being injured in combat. And reeling from a terrible revolution about one of his most trusted advisers and friends— at the time, it had been.

Arthur nods faintly in response, lips pressed as he does his best to ignore the concern on Merlin's face.

"Occasionally." It's more frequent than that, but there's no point in telling Merlin. Despite the vividness of the ones recently, nightmares are nothing new to a knight who has seen bloodshed and _betrayal_ over and over in one lifetime. Arthur learned a cold bed did little to quell the visions at night.

Quickly though the nightmares are behind him, instead he focuses on studying the other man for weakness in return. Merlin isn't as pale as he had been before, not nearly as closed off and seemingly fragile.

There's still the ghost of uneasiness in Arthur's eyes. Bare hints in the mildest hitches of his breathing and in how his veins pound blood loudly, speeding up what should have been a more restful heartbeat.

All of that... Merlin feels against his fingertips, feels the echo of where dreaded memories left his king before removing his hand.

He sympathises... but in an abstract sense. As if glimpsing puzzles with missing pieces, and knowing they are full-well lost. Before Arthur's return and the powerful magic associated with it, Merlin couldn't remember the last time he had a violent nightmare, let alone the ability to dream even the smallest fragment while asleep.

It doesn't mean Arthur's experiences aren't valid in his eyes, as Merlin could _see_ very well with them properly functioning what they could do. It meant that he did not want to see Arthur like this _at all_.

The response of " _Occasionally_ " blatantly has hidden meanings to them, but Merlin doesn't press the matter further.

Always a lingering sense of dread that follows a nightmare, always accompanied by discomfort. Arthur's heart still races, the pace slowing but jumpy and irregular. The blood rushing through his veins makes him feel ready to jump, get out of here like his life depends on it.

The sense of humiliation brings him back down, making him realise he's in bed and away from danger. His limbs feel heavy,winded. He forces the long exhale out as a weight settles in his chest instead of a fearful fire. Arthur wishes he wasn't so _familiar_ with the feeling.

He cracks his eyes open again, shifting so he can see Merlin a bit better.

"When'd you get in here?"

"Just now," Merlin says, eyes soft and purposeful on Arthur as the other man searches Merlin's own expression. Already sensing Arthur's concerns, he adds, seriously, "...I feel better."

Merlin's hand slips out of Arthur's grasp, which earns him a grunt of protest. The warlock stretches out a thin arm across Arthur's side, pulling in closer to him, legs touching, and nearly forehead-to-forehead.

A gust of warm Arthur-scented breath hits Merlin's cheek. And Merlin tries hard to revel as much as he can in this, but not look overly pleased.

"Missed this," he admits in a quiet, oddly shy mumble.

Lips press together in distaste when his grip on Merlin's hand vanishes, but Arthur doesn't grumbling when he finds the arm wrapped around him instead. Arthur's own lifts to give Merlin more room to press in, tucking it underneath the warlock's head before he lays it down.

The amount of warmth just a lanky body like his can give off still astounds Arthur, but he soaks it in all the same. In the same way, Arthur takes in the _shyness_ laced into Merlin's voice with a tick of his lips. It's as if admitting it embarrassed him, which isn't quite as shocking to Arthur. They are both used to mocking insults rather than _fond_ words.

Arthur feels his mouth curl a little more as he lets his head rest against Merlin's, eyes drowsily falling shut again. "It's only been since yesterday, you know." Arthur teases, but his low voice soft in agreement. "Not like it's been a long wait. You slept most of the day."

Just as Merlin closely observes the other man, Arthur appeared to be returning the gesture, summer-sky blue eyes on Merlin. But what he manages to collect seems to satisfy an answer enough, as Arthur goes silent, adjusting himself. However, it still leaves questions hanging above them—( _why?_ ) Merlin shifts his head as Arthur's arm burrowed under his pillow. ( _Why and how?_ )

But as the subject is too heavy for this blissful moment, Merlin lets it go, drinking in the physical nearness and body heat of the other man. Arthur's mouth curls to a smile, as he speaks. More or less teasing.

Arthur could senses the moment the fight left Merlin as the other decides there's no sense in continuing to argue. They are both worried about one another, that much is obvious. Arthur wants to know more about the ill spell yesterday. Merlin wants to understand the nightmares. They both wonder about what was left _unsaid_.

Merlin ends up chuckling out a breath, not backing his forehead out of Arthur's.

"I know _that_ , clotpole," he insists, arm still tight to Arthur's waist. "S'not what I meant." Not really. The humor in Merlin's look fades but does not vanish. "It's you and me... I've missed."

He knows he has Arthur's complete attention then, any drowsiness zapping away and eyes reopening.

"It was different in Camelot, because of the roles we had to play and..."

 _You were happy and happily married, and didn't need me in the way I imagined as a boy_ , Merlin thinks privately, eyes lowering.

"Even then I got to see your face every morning," he says, a little quieter and a little more thickness in his voice. Merlin's fingers clench into the back of Arthur's shirt, needing the reminder of an anchor. "At the lowest points of my life, all I wanted was that one thing."

In full honesty, Arthur is left stunned. He hadn't been expecting such sweet, truthful words from Merlin, or to see his eyes resounding glow. More so, he couldn't believe how similar Merlin's thoughts were to some of the ones he had had over and over before.

Arthur listens silently, but a soft smile took over as the playful nature slips into one of adoration. Arthur pointedly ignores the heat blossoming in his chest and running up through his body because he refuses to acknowledge that _Merlin's_ sweetness has left a faint glow to his cheeks. At least, not now.

Merlin, the _dolt_ and overall giddy idiot in Arthur's life, has never said anything sweeter.

He meets Arthur's gaze, stormy-blue eyes shining a little brighter, but dry and serious. Merlin's grin deepens, as he says a bit more firmly, decisively as if it's an oath, "Now the gods have shown mercy. If I can help it... I wouldn't miss another morning, not after knowing what it was like without."

Arthur stares at him more a long time before reaching over with his free hand, thumb dragging over jutted cheekbones and his delicately pale skin.

"Nor would I." he murmurs, the sound more of a rumble. He smiles, warm and bright. "If only I had been able to wake up like this sooner... I feel like those cold nights would have been much different."

He leans in, ghosting his lips over Merlin's in a thankful gesture. "But I still had you by my side. That was enough. It's all I've ever needed." As an afterthought his hand cups Merlin's cheek a little tighter. "I don't plan on leaving you alone. Not in the morning, not ever."

*

Unlike Arthur's heart hammering away in his chest, likely amiably startled by the genuine-hearted certainty in Merlin's voice, Merlin's own heartbeat is slow and sure. It's worth confessing all of this.

It's worth it for the sense of careless freedom in revealing emotion, in Arthur not mocking him or attempting to back out of the conversation.

Heat touches Merlin's cheek, where Arthur's hand strokes it, fingers gently curled there. A tingle of pleasure goes down Merlin's spine, with it combined glimpsing Arthur's widening, gleeful smile. It isn't often he smiles so abandoned with his happiness. The smiles he gives Merlin were usually restrained in some manner, but spoke true.

This isn't a smile to be taken lightly—exposing his teeth, creasing the very fleshy corners of Arthur's mouth and Merlin _feels_ the deliberate, soft attention at the brush of drowsy lips on his. Merlin wants to press back into it, roll into Arthur and open up the kiss, savor the intensity of the moment. Forget what it was like to be lonely for centuries.

But he can't bear to shatter the quiet admiration on Arthur's face. Not when moments like these are so rare. Merlin's cheek nudges back slightly against Arthur's large palm, as he gazes back into the warmth of dark blue eyes, his own mouth twitching up into a smirk.

His ankle bumps into Arthur's calf under the blankets, weakly but on purpose. "...'course," he murmurs sleepily, turning back into the pillow to stifle a yawn. "You wouldn't have lasted a week without me."

Merlin groans out a laugh when the hit is returned.

*

Hours seem to fade to days. Or rather, they _are_ days passed. Within the time-frame, he thinks they had been productive as it goes.

During Tiamat's long periods of rest—which Merlin panicked about at first, until Arthur was reduced to barking insults and dragging him to the library to actually use his research skills and channel his restless energy—it leaves both men to relax into some sort of normalcy.

Arthur still does his chores, albeit with a furrow to his brow and a silent grimace. They leave the cottage, to shop for groceries, to have a look about Glastonbury's little town, and even pick up fairly new mobiles for themselves. The concept of mobile texting baffles Arthur at first.

It's tucked in the pocket of Arthur's trousers where he put it after getting to frustrated with it. Merlin did his best to explain it, but the glowing of the screen had been enough to startle Arthur at first— especially with the object _greeting_ _him_ as it first turned on. Arthur does his best not to seem too ignorant, especially after the works stared at him in bemused disdain. He spends the walk back to the cottage berating Merlin with questions as Arthur constantly locks and unlocks it, swiping his finger and touching the screen and watching it change.

The technology is _astounding_ in a way he never imagined, and yet here it, in his palm. Arthur still doesn't quite understand the concept of being able to send the message from one to the other with such speed, but he remains a good day or so attempting to send them to Merlin's own device.

There's also the matter of the large box Merlin called a _television_ , but Arthur remains skeptical each time he passes it.

Time had been well spent, pleasant and glad. However, Arthur feels a sense of wariness building inside.

It's like a prickling in the base of his spine, a twist in his gut whenever he catches Merlin looking a little too tired out of the corner of his eye. The concern peaks the morning Merlin's nose bleeds again in the kitchen. Whenever Arthur thought about it (which was _often_ ) he feels a curl of frustration. There is something _happening_.

The last time Merlin dies magic—catching a falling teacup midair and instinctively in the kitchen when Merlin's elbow struck it—another heavy nosebleed results. The outright concern in Arthur's expression burns a hole in Merlin's memory. He demands answers Merlin could not give, and for that Merlin is... rattled.

Nothing like this has ever happened before. When he voices that to Arthur, Merlin abhors his decision, as it seems to allow Arthur's worries to increase tenfold and make him watch Merlin like a hawk. (Which is, granted, touching in a way but also highly _annoying_.)

That late morning, bathroom mirror fogging with his breath, Merlin observes his own reflection with some scrutiny.

He has facial hair now, about two day's worth of it by the looks of it (also not something that _happened_ very often). Black, prickly stubble covers the bottom parts of Merlin's cheeks, his jaw and his chin. His hair looks less tufted... as if it were starting to thicken and grow out.

Not that Arthur complains about Merlin getting shaggy. He hasn't been incredibly open about _complimenting_ Merlin on it, but the dark scruff and length to his hair looks _good_. A bit less put together, and Arthur enjoys the feel of it against his skin— also, having a little more to _grip_ _on_ to is always appreciated.

Merlin's fingers slide over his neck, his head tilting to the side, tracing lightly over the bruising, misshaped blotch. Reddened and fresh.

A damn _hickey_.

He hisses a little through his teeth, surprised by the faint jolt of pain when his forefinger applies some pressure to it. Merlin addresses the movement behind him with the view the bathroom mirror provides him, sounding a bit grumpy, "Looks like you left a mark, blighter."

The bathroom feels warm, steam rising from the shower when Arthur returns with a pair of dark jeans on. He leaves his shirt in there along with the trousers that has his mobile.

Arthur can't help but gaze over when he heard a noise of discomfort. Before he can ask, Merlin sounds irritated and Arthur smirks. Straightening up from where he collects his top, he joins Merlin at the mirror, staring at him from over his shoulder before inspecting the budding bruise from earlier.

He hums in satisfaction, though on the inside Arthur wonders _how_ he managed to leave a kiss-mark on Merlin, this time, when he failed every time before.

"That's what you get for not shutting up. I don't want to hear about the damned _dragon_ at all hours of the day, thank you."

Arthur considered making the bed a dragon- _free_ zone just so Merlin would stop worrying over it so much, when it had done little but sleep the past few days. He did try a different method of shutting Merlin up this time.

A _nicer_ method.

Arthur hardly _talks_ to him about his own return, or why, or what exactly they need to do about Mab or the fledgling. And how to keep their destinies separate. But even Merlin doesn't have... the energy.

(Just another thing on the list of growing questions.)

Merlin bends forward, spitting the remains of toothpaste lining inside his mouth into the opening of the sink. Flecking a little on his cashmere sweater. He scrubs at his lips, beginning to frown. And then rubs dry at his sweater, cleaning away the tiniest, white blobs.

Arthur's words filter in. Oh, so Merlin _deserves_ it, does he?

"Prat," he mutter loudly, not bothering to hide the obviously grinning sarcasm when Arthur steps in and his eyes peer to the reflection of the bathroom mirror. That self-satisfied light and Arthur's smirk is very hard to miss, even through the shower-fog left.

Arthur's hum, thoughtful and pleasantly-sounding, reverberates through his chest, somewhat presses to Merlin's back. Before the other man slings on his striped-blue jersey over his arms, Merlin jerks his head in Arthur's direction, snapping his jaws in mock-heat.

It distracts him from staring too openly at the naked, broad expansion of Arthur's chest muscles. Bloody fucking gorgeous prat.

Merlin's fingers begins tracing once more, avoiding the bruising mark.

He doesn't know what he hated more—the knot of his own anxiety settling in the bottom of Merlin's gut or the serious tone from Arthur. And in that case, it's the anxiety and burning sense of misplaced irritation. Because that is ALL it seemed like happening—n _o, don't get up Merlin_ , you're too useless; _no, you rest Merlin_ , you're like a child; n _o, you're sick Merlin_ , you're supposed to be a great sorcerer...

A shaky tremor of a breath escapee Merlin's lips, as he glances over himself, fingertips clenching down over the long, white scar to his neck.

"You hardly look different at all."

"You know that's _not_ true..."

The kiss is a little unexpected, but Merlin frames his face, spinning around, looking at Arthur solemnly.

"This is a good different," Arthur tells him, mumbling against his throat and hugging Merlin's waist, just as the other man's arms encircle him. He's blessedly warm, and Arthur's hands travel down Merlin's hairy thighs exposed without a pair of trousers. A muffled, _loving_ laugh erupts from Merlin's mouth pressed to his.

"Where do you think you're going?" he asks mischievously, grabbing onto one of Arthur's hands and pushing his palm against Merlin's clothed erection, slowly hardening under the attention. Unlike what he initially thought may happen, Arthur's fingers dive underneath his pants, dry and _hot_ , shifting, fondling his cock.

They're very used to feeling of memorising each other's are skin and appreciative touches, and Merlin bites down a groan, rolling up his hips—but hardly _expects_ the vision of Arthur kneeling down, _sucking_ him off. A loud, shocked gasp flies out of Merlin's lips, and he _clings_ to Arthur so fiercely, rocking into him, moaning out his name.

_Arthur._

*

Within the little more than two weeks since Arthur's reappearance, Merlin has to wonder if it _should_ have been this easy.

Them falling so comfortably in rhythm with each other, crowding, flirting, holding hands on the crosswalk, emotional exposure, snogging in the hallway. The _sex_.

The kettle on the stove begins a high, piteous shrill as Merlin enters the kitchen. He lifts it with a towel, pouring a cup of hot water for himself. Black tea suffices this morning with some milk.

Merlin unwraps a granola bar from the nearby pantry as he finishes preparing his tea, having it clenched between his teeth as he glances up momentarily at Arthur entering. He tosses a wrapped granola bar in his direction. Merlin strips a piece off his bar, chewing.

"You'll learn this is not a well-loved phrase to begin with in a conversation, but we need to have a talk." After a pause, it;s like Merlin extracted the thought from Arthur's expression. He rolls his eyes. "—For gods sake, it's not about the _bloody_ dragon so you can stop with the look like you've stuck your nose in curdled milk."

Arthur says indignantly, "Then what is this all about?"

What feels like a low migraine pounded steadily behind Merlin's eyes.

"The—well, uhm..."

Merlin lets the words float away from him, using the opportunity to cram the rest of the granola bar into his gob, chewing furiously and swallowing a little too much at once, needing a couple sips of his tea. It must have been either hilarious or downright barmy for Arthur to see.

"The outer wards along the woods are still broken," Merlin says. "You remember that... probably." He clears his throat, uncomfortably. "They need to be repaired sooner rather than later. I'm thinking of going in another hour or so... it can be over and done with."

"Yes," Arthur says slowly, unsure what Merlin is trying to get at with this.

And then his mind supplies an incredibly unhelpful thought. Wards had to require a lot of magic, didn't they?

"Are you sure..." he says before trailing off, lips pursing as Arthur considers this. "Must they be done now?"

Merlin's thumb rests against the inside lip of his cup, soaking in the heat of the water. It's ridiculous to imagine Arthur would enjoy this conversation. Slipping about the knowledge of Merlin's dizzy spells, about the lack of magic in the house, or voicing opinions...

Now, across the kitchen island, across the granite counter-top, Arthur's fist balls up the unwrapped granola bar, signaling frustration. He restrains a lot of feeling and thought behind his expression, behind words Arthur are not truly saying—mouth thinning.

No, Merlin _can't_ be sure. But he has no choice.

Waiting any longer than necessary to repair the wards (when it already have been days and _days_ too long idling) will give any enemy favorable circumstance.

And...

( _I'm not getting better.)_

And that is the truth of it.

Merlin sucks in a tight breath, eyes lidding, shoulders lengthening. "If Mab strips down those wards, it just leaves this one here," he explains, the blue of his eyes cool and impassive. "And if she gets through the one surrounding this cottage then..."

... Yes, _what if_ she does get her hands on Tiamat? On either of them?

An unpleasant shudder works its way up Merlin's body.

"I'd rather not see that happen," he says, curtly. "It'll take a lot of magic to sustain and repair the broken ward, so I'll need to summon it from the earth with a ritual. It'll take all my concentration." At this, Merlin's face softens to raw emotion for the first time since they were wrapped in each other that early morning, chuckling and kissing each other's cares away—just for those few, sunlit moments.

"In order for that to happen, I can't have anyone with me..." Merlin's lip scrapes to the bottom of his teeth. "I know that's not what you want to hear, Arthur. And I can't—"

_Can't._

A terrible way of expressing it. Merlin can and he _had_ before. But... he can't make the same mistake again, not with the betrayal he had seen clearly in Arthur's eyes and sickened guilt in himself.

"—I _won't_ hold you against your will," Merlin amends, jaw clenching and gaze firm on the other man. "You're not a prisoner here. This is your home as well as mine as long as you want it to be. But I would _ask_ you to be my eyes and ears here while I did this." The warlock reaches into his khakis, presenting out his mobile. "I will keep this with me, you can call me at any time..."

*

They are both bracing themselves, Arthur could tell that much.

Merlin isn't playing off his worry with an exasperated smile of rolling his eyes in irritation. He's serious, and that was what worries Arthur most.

Emotion is the key with Merlin. Arthur can gauge how he would react, how _long_ he would be mad just by the look in his eyes. But when he's calm and collected like he is now... it made Arthur feel _cold_. Merlin detaches himself, and Arthur knows from experience that it never led to anything good.

The moment Merlin says that witch's name, Arthur feels like he had just been proved right. His eyes lock onto Merlin, refusing to move as he listens with heavy disdain. Arthur understands the gravity of what Merlin is trying to get across— really, he does. Arthur has seen a _glimpse_ at what she could do, heard stories far worse, and there's no way he wanted her to come back again.

But _this_?

The amount of power Merlin says it would take… he doesn't have it. Arthur can see it the longer the days went on... Merlin is tired and worn thin with his concern over the dragon and trying to take on all that he had with _him_. Arthur watches him with uncertainty when the carefully blank expression drops, just knowing Merlin isn't done yet.

It's the part that followed that sucked the air right out of Arthur's chest, lungs unable to constrict enough to keep up with a jolt of _righteous_ anger that flared up. Is he _honestly_ suggesting that Arthur would let him go alone—

"You _can't_ —?" Arthur ask to say before Merlin corrects himself, words sparking with flaring anger. Even when Merlin backtracks, his blue eyes are electric, watching him in obvious disapproval.

"You can't be serious."

But of course he is. Merlin is the prime example of serious, all rigid angles and concealed regret. Arthur shifts, muscles in his jaw working as he gives a stiff shake of his head.

Perhaps if it hadn't been for the health concerns, if he hadn't mentioned _Mab_ of all things before trying to convince Arthur to go along with it, maybe Arthur wouldn't feel as angry. But all Arthur _can_ feel was his whole body crying out that this is a _mistake_. Merlin shouldn't be on his own to do something this drastic, not when only a few days before he nearly collapsed _simply_ from cleaning up a spilled bucket.

Merlin needed— _wanted—_ him to stay here, for him to do _what_? Sit around and make sure the dragon sleeps all right while Arthur stares at the door and wonders where in the hell Merlin is off in the woods?

"I can't be the only one here who knows how _idiotic_ of an idea that is."

"Merlin, you start _bleeding_ the second you try to use magic— which isn't often." Arthur's eyes dart back to his, making sure Merlin knows he has been paying attention. "Is the idea of you having a mobile with you supposed to make me feel any _better_ about the idea of you fainting somewhere out in the woods?"

He wants to be understanding. Arthur hates knowing his voice raises while Merlin's own voice stays neutral, especially when he knows Merlin wouldn't be making him do this if it wasn't a _necessity_. But then again, had it been necessary to keep him locked inside last time? Absolutely not.

*

The hardest part to endure is Arthur's disappointment and his mistrust. Having to gaze long and sharply back at Merlin's face.

It seems universes away when Merlin had that trust in the palm of his hand, cradling it proudly, treating it sweetly and steadfastly. Even now, Arthur declares no faith in Merlin's decisions—a rumbling thunder to his voice, sparks of heat to dark blue eyes, lips pressed and muscles drawn.

And partly to do with a reasonable point—Merlin is physically and spiritually _weak_. But it only further cements what needed to be done.

 _Idiotic_ , Arthur says. Concern and fear in Arthur's body language—from his racing heart Merlin can nearly hear in his ears, to his wrinkled brow, to the stiffness to his limbs. Merlin's urge is to brush that away immediately, to clasp Arthur's face and bring it to his, to let the warmth between them sink in. To kiss the lightly freckled bridge of Arthur's nose and whisper, no, it isn't easy to wait. And he wouldn't ask that of Arthur if there had been another way...

Instead, the raw emotion on Merlin's face quietly blossoms, perking up the corners of his mouth and thawing away the solemn lines.

"You're worried about me?" he asks, slightly awed.

It... never fails to seem so new and untried. Living alone staunched the appreciation of a person thinking of his safety and well-being, but Arthur...

The color to his eyes eyes grows vivid, mirthful. Merlin steps around the kitchen counter, forgetting his tea.

"Arthur, since when have our lives not carried risks with them?" Despite the subject, he beams, dimples popping. Blue eyes on blue. "We've faced many things together... bandits, arrows, kidnappings, demons and spirits, corrupted sorcerers, you've _died_ ," Merlin's own breath catches audibly, the insides of his mouth throbbing and dry.

"—but did the world stop turning?" A breathless, knowing silence follows. Whether or not Arthur reacts to it, Merlin shakes his head noticeably. "I've _watched_ it move on without you," he says. "Wars still raged, blood still spilled. The forces of good and the forces of evil still clashed. People still got hurt." Merlin gazes down a moment as his arm does to support the counter-top, fingers inches from Arthur's fingers.

"But we _don't_ give in because the risks seem too high." It wasn't noble. It wasn't right. It wasn't what either of them would have done. He searches Arthur's faintly bemused expression. "The magic I seek is from the _earth_... the original source. It heals. It isn't possible for it to inflict harm on anyone like me, I know this."

"Until Mab can be defeated, we have to keep this cottage and everyone inside it safe. You understand duty and honor, Arthur. This is _mine_. To you and to the fledgling, as her kin and her blood." Within the emotion bared, a flicker of serious nature crossez Merlin's face. His fingers creep forward, bumping Arthur's knuckles lightly.

"I'm asking you again, _please_ , let me do this," he says in a murmur this time. "You don't have to like it, and you can throw water pitchers at my head or threaten to build the stocks in the backyard to leave me there all night..." Merlin's amused, clear laugh echoes the room. "But for a few hours, I need them to myself."

Arthur feels Merlin's hand hover against his, lips twitching at the contact as he finally turned his attention to the window. Arthur goes silent for a long time, listening to Merlin's quiet words and teasing laugh that reverberates in his chest.

If Arthur starts thinking any harder, the other man could have heard the cogs and ruts going round and round, wooden and creaking.

(Thanks gods he _can't_ hear it—Merlin would have not have been pleased about attaining any clairvoyance other than the telepathic link between him and magical persons during his centuries of immortality.)

Arthur has doubts. He would have them, low-hanging and unnaturally heavy, even as Merlin walked out the front door. Merlin can't promise him anything certain, staying out of trouble or the like—but he would rather be honest than spin promises and lies out of half-truths.

It's difficult enough to breach the subject without Arthur raising his voice at him or using a snippy, condescending tone.

But something appears to begin to give way... Arthur's lips twitching, the glum moodiness fading from bright blue eyes. It may have been helped by the physical contact of their hands.

For good measure, not as a calculated strategy but as a symbol of reassurance, Merlin lifts his own, touching over Arthur's fingers and clasping loosely.

One of things Arthur understands most was the importance of physical movement, whether it's an opponent in battle, a knight needing improvement during training sessions, a frightened commoner needing a shoulder to cry on but refusing to admit it or _dare_ think a King could empathise, a loved one showing their devotion in their hands or smiles or arms embracing.

"...You swear these rituals cannot harm you?" Arthur speaks up, eyes flickering to Merlin's as his fingers uncurl from the loosening fists. "And you'll call if anything is the matter." That is not up for debate and he makes it rather clear. "If you don't there won't be a _need_ for a stock because I'll clobber you myself."

"I will." Merlin can at least keep his mobile on him.

He nods, snorting lightly at the mild threat.

"The ritual can't hurt me," Merlin reminds him, keeping full eye contact, grin softening down to a little, enigmatic smile. "Though you probably could, arse."

An unspoken 't _hank you_ ' passes between them as the warlock shifts Arthur's hand to him, their fingers still entangled, head bowed as Merlin presses his lips briefly and gently to the center of Arthur's sweaty palm. Finding contentment in its— _his_ strong, human warmth; a reminder that all had never been lost. That Arthur has come back to the world.

... To Merlin.

Of it, the pure body heat only interrupted by the cool, lovely burn of Arthur's ring-band nudging into Merlin's cheekbone.

"It feels like tapping into a fresh spring after a hard day's ride," he murmurs, looking back up. Merlin remembers his dry mouth and stomach averse to the offers of water the night Arthur had to carry him around like a sack of grain. "If anything, I'll feel a lot better after it."

*

And that's the end of the discussion, for the most part. Merlin wanders off to his library, paging through a couple, tattered books to refresh his memory on the text, repeating and mumbling the incantations to himself absently as he hurries around, searching out black tourmaline and quartz as clear as melted snow. The air smells of myrrh and sage, thick enough to make a coughing fit inevitable.

Merlin's hip bumps against a tabletop in his clumsiness, nearly knocking over candles that rolled on their sides and parchment.

His hand luckily catches his letter opener as the object makes a dangerous leap blade-first towards the ground and for one of his toes.

 _Iron_.

He can feel the natural element of it buzzing deep, protectively. At the ray of thought alight within him, Merlin tucks it away, smoothing out his clothes. Before leaving the dusty room, there had been a semi-instinct to offer a prayer to the gods of the Old Religion.

Disdainfully, Merlin slams the oak double doors loudly behind him.

*

It unnerves him, how sporadic his emotional control is lately.

Even though Arthur adjusts to the new era fairly well, in his opinion, he still feels off kilter.

He is _in between_ worlds.

And then Merlin's gone, disappearing further into the cottage until Arthur hears the library doors shut behind the warlock.

When Arthur is good and alone, he releases a sigh, rubbing a hand over his eyes. Merlin better be right about this.

He spends longer in the kitchen than Arthur means to, He keeps trying to rationalize the plan in his head. Merlin knows magic more than he does, and while Arthur's initial reaction to it is to be wary, Arthur has no idea the differences between earth rituals or sacrifices— _Merlin_ is the expert.

His own reactions can't quite be trusted either, Arthur is beginning to see. Merlin isn't thinking rationally, not like he used to. Arthur ruled a kingdom with a head tethered tighter to his shoulders than now. Even so the idea of Merlin going out on his _own_... it just doesn't settle well.

The sound of slamming doors jar Arthur from his thoughts and a quick glance around his surroundings inform him he;s at the window, overlooking the front garden. Seems Arthur's wanders matches the track of his mind.

Turning, Arthur crosses his arms as he hears footsteps heading in his direction. The moment he sees Merlin, Arthur knows it's time for him to _leave_. Arthur feels his expression shift downward to match the heaviness settling on his shoulders again. When he meets Merlin's eyes, iit hardly changed.

Out in the parlor room, Tiamat sleeps soundly one of the ends of the couch, so deeply in Merlin's woolen blankets that only the gem-bright red of her snout is visible to him.

Merlin chuckles at the sight.

And as expected, Arthur stands by the front door, arms crossed. Under the intense scrutiny, Merlin becomes painfully aware of himself. The dried flecks of toothpaste on the front of his jumper. Hair mussed and not even combed properly (with the exception of Arthur's greedy hands running through black locks during the early morning hours).

Merlin scratches absently at the dark layer of hair on his neck and jaw. Damn, everywhere itches too. He probably should have shaved it off.

"If the fledgling does end up waking while I'm gone, don't panic. It's best to just feed her," he says. Balanced precariously on one foot, Merlin tugs a boot. "There's a tray of raw meat I've prepared in the refrigerator; it's covered in the pink saran wrap, you can't miss it. She likes it hot so put it in the microwave for about three to four minutes."

He tugs on the next boot, rattling off instructions while looking down.

"I don't think she understands English yet so don't start barking orders at her. She's a _dragon_ , not a pet. If she wants to your company, just plug in the green electric blanket. Turn it on HIGH and spread it out on a cushion next to you... she'll fall right to sleep..." Merlin trails off, already having straightened up, eyes widening as the sensation of a very familiar mouth grazes his, leaving tiny pinpoints of heat.

"on... it..."

He chases the almost-kiss when Arthur leans out, whether or not it had been teasing, pale, spindly hands bracketing Arthur's hips. Merlin now presses whole-bodied into him, into those dense muscles and lifetime of scars and gold skin under striped blue material, letting out a sigh against Arthur's damp mouth, eyes closed.

"I've got it under control," Arthur tells him, beginning to smile.

He's determined to send Merlin off on a better note than the one he started this all on. So far, Arthur figures he;s doing all right. When Merlin's hands find his hips, Arthur's hands slide to his face, grabbing tight while the other man draws closer. His grip ends up in Merlin's hair, firm as he kisses him harder than before.

Arthur's presence always knows how to draw him in. At first, out of sheer irritation from the sneering looks and unreasonable demands.

Soon after, it had been Arthur's courage and his good, strong heart open to his subjects and their woes. And soon after that, it was his reach of friendship. Asking for Merlin's counsel, whether it was matters of the heart or the matters of ruling the kingdom. Ordering Merlin to be his side during long campaigns or cut-throat missions or hunts.

Mithian told him once that there was no one other person Arthur valued his opinion on next to Merlin. The realization of that stirred invisible butterflies in his gut and warmed the skin on Merlin's face.

He had all he could to ensure this would remain true. Even in the face of Arthur's fearful rejection of his magic and in Arthur's last moments.

And now, something kindles deeper and far more powerful than loyalty to the crown, than a simpler matter of friendship. And Merlin lets that feeling wash over him, pressing into his king, melding lines.

Hands clasp to Merlin's face, thumbs dragging slow patterns and holding him a bit steadier when Arthur's mouth overtakes his. Merlin groans softly into it, allowing the other man dominance of the kiss because it _feels_ right. Heat and wet and Arthur's tongue sliding against his, but not clashing. _Coaxing_ him. Sharing bursts of air.

A slight yank on Merlin's hair with Arthur's fingers deep within it, nearly possessive in nature, triggers a bolt of pleasure up his spine and an indecipherable, loud grunt against Arthur's lips.

He has to... ... _they_ have to before...

Merlin forces himself out of the thoroughly welcomed kiss, breathing quickened, eyes reopening. Setting his temple to Arthur's own.

He struggles only a moment to regain a voice. "Keep yourself and her within the gates. It'll protect you," Merlin says, hoarsely. Spindly, pale hands gently squeezes Arthur's hips in his grasp before dropping. He meets Arthur's eye, offering a small but genuine smile.

And of course, has to ruin any fragility.

"Maybe you can make yourself useful and _clean_ while I'm go—" He avoids likely a swat on the head by the other man, ducking out the front door alone and laughing while doing it, scrubbing his head.

" _Yeh_! I'll be back soon, Arthur."

*

 


	42. Chapter 42

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to everyone who has stuck around and the new readers! ❤❤❤ Lots is happening now. Also the "[King Arthur](http://www.perennialresource.com/encyclopedia/view/?plant=202)" flower is real, and so is the "[Merlin](http://www.outsidepride.com/seed/flower-seed/hollyhock/hollyhock-merlin.html)" flowers. Cool right?
> 
> Half of this fic wouldn't exist without [marlena_darling](http://archiveofourown.org/users/marlena_darling/pseuds/marlena_darling) and I wanna say thank you for taking this journey with me and you've been a best friend to me. I love you lots and this is ours.

 

*

He leaves the protection of the innermost ward—the stone-carved runes of his gates humming lilt and pleasantly in his skull, even as Merlin steps beyond the boulders—and palms one of his back pockets absently.

No matter what is to come, no matter if Merlin succeeds or fails in repairing the tear to the magical barriers... on his cursed life, no one is getting through that last ward.

Not to the fledgling. Not to Arthur.

Merlin's jaw clenches tight in resolve. To dismiss it, he turns slightly in place before vanishing and waves—nothing more than a bright, little orange speck of fabric among the swallowing primeval of the woods.

It's a familiar sight to behold for him, or a feeling like the dry cracklings of twigs snapping apart beneath the heaviness of Merlin's steps. The woods. _His_ woods left of Camelot. A safe haven to recede from prying eyes and prying minds with questions upon questions:

" _What field of study did you choose?"—"Are you from Casnewydd? (You sound Welsh, is all)"—"Do you live with your family?"—"How do you take your cuppa?—"Fuck those bastards in Parliament, yeh? (If I wanna bugger a bloke, I'll bugger a bloke, is all)"_ —

Thousands of years living and breathing, and all the mortals here want to know about is _you_. What you do on a Saturday night.

They want to mindlessly consume their telly programmes, not miss the afternoon charter bus to work, dot their 'i's and cross their 't's and brush their gums, swear off drinking ,and whisper soft, filthy lies about 'love' and 'need' while holding open your quivering legs.

Unlike Meadhbh, he can not pretend there's unforgivable nature in humans. Meadhbh had _never_ been mortal herself. Merlin had.

They are vain and silly, righteous and furious. Deadly when pushed.

With certainty, every soul would succumb to a frail, dying state because of their mortality. He watched them all.

Victims of disease. The elders of the Druid tribes. Children. The people of Camelot who paid nothing to see him and were given _everything_ they needed to heal. His sickly mother hugging Balinor's tattered journal to her breast. Gwen, the summer queen, his _one_ true loyalty remaining while the realms were falling piece-by-piece to sweeping chaos—grasping Merlin's hand warmly, her brown skin pockmarked and weathered.

Their soul-light faded away, leaving behind cold shells and further proof in Merlin's eyes that they were _beautiful_ in their intended fate.

... How _fortunate_ they had been to no longer endure their suffering.

Merlin scrubs his bare hands across his face, grunting.

He needs a vein of the earth's magic. To travel longer, faster. Despite Arthur's bellyaching in the past about Merlin's useless company in the hunting parties, Merlin is at least very good at tracking _this_.

Merlin kneels down, graying-green grass crinkling under him, digging his hands into the ground and closing his eyes. Burying his nails entirely to the black, damp soil. Sending out a weak current of his magic.

It echos back to him, and Merlin reaches in, further, and further without moving an inch of his body. His chest spasming out an exhale.

Finally, non-physical warmth—prickling the hairs on Merlin's head, soothing his aching limbs and his headache—trickles up him. The earth's magic, natural as sunlight and fresh air, cleanses his ills.

Merlin knows at that very moment, by instinct, what he needs.

And when he opens his yellow-glow eyes, he has it. And gallops off, strength and endurance powering him deeper into the thicket, hooves pounding. Muscles and tendons, bigger in this form, with flank and bulk.

Distance goes by as if a passing of mere moments—animal snorting with clouds of frost from his nostrils, panting, lessening to a gait and the pinna of his brown, furred ears rotating. It's difficult to maintain a sense of 'self' while... a completely _different_ species. Time gets lost.

It may have seemed damn unlikely, _bizarre_ even—if some stranger had been wandering the same path, gazing towards a wild stallion crossing along the tree-sewn path (a brown coat with the exception of white markings as well as black down its legs, and a lone, white stripe of down its muzzle), only to blink as an old rowan tree blocked the view. And on the other side of the tree so stepped a man of his late twenties, shivering and heavily bundled in a thick, cashmere sweater.

Merlin suspects that the now miserable stranger would have left the woods beginning to think themselves stark raving mad.

Lucky for him, no one dares to venture this far in. Usually.

He stretches his bones and his neck, cracking them back into proper alignment, and selfishly revels in the awareness, the dull hum and thrum of sorcery pulsing heat through his veins, kindling his marrow.

" _Éirí beoga ond wudublæd,_ " escapes his mouth.

Merlin stares in open mouth delight as the forest ground around him comes back to life, grass ripened a fresh summer green from dullness, popping accents of bold, splendid colors with the litters of meadow flowers. Iit's like a memory to his years as a wee, skinny boy, narrowly avoiding chores and scraping his knees up tree branches. Diving into the mountain caverns. Racing and squealing after kits and rabbits in Ealdor's wild, open fields.

He bends over, fingers brushing the silky petals of a royal purple delphinium. The plant stands towering over the others, bursting in their centres with white, spiked blossoms. Merlin touches his upturned lips to a stalk, like a lover's caress, murmuring to its pedals, " _King Arthur._ "

Soon after winter and its dreariness passes, he hopes to teach Arthur to appreciate the strength and beauty of the ground and soil beneath their feet. Grow a harvest, plant seeds and reap their efforts. Allow him to understand that simple practices led to _great_ deeds.

(Merlin would proudly decorate these flowers around the cottage's gates. Smile furtively when his king asked of their origin.)

As the warlock moves on, new blooms of flowers surround the base of the delphiniums. A scatter of mauves and elusive blues, cushioning around the taller plant and radiant as the perennials flourish.

 *

Arthur isn't sure how much time he spends at the window, but he lingers until Merlin disappears through the thicket of trees.

Blue eyes narrow as his expression turns to resignation, a sigh leaving him as Arthur wipes his face. The pads of his fingers on his lips, tracing the sensation of warmth tingling from the kiss shared only minutes before.

Finally moving away from the window, Arthur eyes the cottage with a sudden sense of wariness and intrigue. He doesn;t think he would actually have been by himself, at least not when Merlin is more than just outside the cottage gates. Arthur thinks he may have enjoy it more if it was under different circumstances.

His feet move him further in, eyes sparing a glance at the pile of blankets slowly heaving on the couch.

Arthur's charge for the next few hours sleeps without stirring, no astonishment there. The dragon could probably sleep through a _war_ raging right outside the door.

(Well... she _has_.)

Arthur heads to the kitchen, aimlessly persuing through the food and everything else left around.

It's his chance to meddle, and going through Merlin's things helps pass the time. Some places like the bedroom is kept fairly clean, while others (and most) are cluttered with random odds and ends. Arthur doesn't know the difference between modern and old, not unless something is blatantly fading due to the wear of time, so he can't quite tell if some of the plates and such are from this era or not. He assumes plenty of the things in the cottage _could_ be older than him—in both the age he feels and his _real_ age.

Hunger hasn't found him yet. His nerves still twist in his stomach. Abandoning the kitchen, Arthur wanders the halls. There isn't much on the walls or littered around, but the same can't be said for the bedroom.

Mainly though, that is Merlin's fault. He had obviously dug through his clothes to find something to quickly throw on, but Arthur can't exactly say he's the only one to blame. Arthur knows for a fact his own clothes are haphazardly tossed in the drawer in an attempt at folding like Merlin showed him.

The "cat kibble" crunching underneath Arthur's foot doesn't lift his spirits either.

Arthur glances down with a frown, raising his foot as the pieces crumple and back onto the floor.

Raising his eyebrow, he inspects the floor, noticing scattered food like debris around the cat bowl Merlin moved into the bedroom for the _lurker_ underneath the bed. Apparently , Gaius finally came out, and _he_ had been hungry. Arthur bends and picks up the extra pieces to not step on more, tossing them in the bin by the door. When he faces round, Arthur dsicovers the golden ball of fur at his feet, looking at Arthur with a _wariness_ that even makes the man pause.

"I see you've joined us again." Arthur says dryly. He steps around Gaius to the bed only to notice the small thing following him.

A small meow. Gaius hops up onto the bed, looking at him expectantly as he nears Arthur's side.

Arthur glances him over, skeptical at the cat. It had never exactly been _drawn_ to him before, but then again, Gaius had been left to his own devices while hiding out in a single room for a few days. That could make anything at least a little bit _excited_ to see anyone else.

"You're not a fan of it either, are you?" Arthur murmurs, ignoring the fact that he's talking to a _cat_ in favor of reaching out his hand slowly.

Gaius sniffs , and after a long moment, he moves forward and headbutting against Arthur's fingers in a request for him to actually _pet_ him instead of just holding his hand there. Arthur;s lips tick in faint amusement as he scratches behind the cat's ears, which seems to do the trick.

"We have that in common, I suppose."

Perhaps this is an alliance forming?

Arthur realises of the dragon—well, they may as well stick together.

He sits on the edge of the bed. Gaius paces over to him, walking over his lap. Arthur doesn't really mind. The company is nice and Gaius' purring keeps his mind at ease.

At least, until Arthur hears noises from the other room. It's a gargled screech and a bark of a hound mixed together.

Gaius, soon enough, is off Arthur's lap, darting under the bed with a hiss. Arthur grimaces to himself as he watches the cat vanishes, knowing what that means.

"Look like it's awake," he mutters, hesitating before Arthur hauls himself off the bed. May as well make sure it has not doused the settee into flames. The longer Arthur takes to haul himself off the bed, the more dragon screeches intensify.

(It reminds him of the _noise_ that the lorries in the village made when put in reverse. Less frequent, but just as awful.)

His footsteps echo through the lone hallway as Arthur heads towards the living room, but something's amiss.

The room is _empty_.

That alone is worrisome.

The blankets previously covering the fledgling are tossed around the settee, one dangling off onto the floor. Arthur sees one end ripped, feeling dismay. He heads further into the cottage, glancing towards the kitchen before a _scratching_ catches his attention.

Arthur jerks around as another loud screech fills the air. This time, it's the small creature pawing at the closet door.

He can already see marks on the wood from the claws.

" _Oi_ ," Arthur says frowning and storming to it.

Golden eyes meet his, as Tiamat gazes over to him. His presence only appears to spur on whatever need it has because it screeches again, the noise more _insistent_ than before. And then the fledgling hops round, scurrying off with an eagerness that Arthur almost think is _curiosity_. He watches on, bewildered, but doesn't try to stop it.

The dragon pauses at the fireplace, peering up at it while the feathers of its back moved restlessly.

There's a faint chill radiating from the cold air at the top of the chimney, and the fresh wood Merlin brought in remains unlit where he left it. Arthur told him he would take care of it, and suddenly there's a mental image of the wood and the rest of the cottage _going up_ if the dragon suddenly becomes _too_ curious.

As if on cue, the tiny creature huffs. Arthur's chest tightens, his feet moving him forward before he has a real chance to think it over.

"Oh no, _you_ , get back."

He is not to be _blamed_ for a fire, not in the first hour of Merlin being gone.

Arthur bends down, scooping the creature up, arm wrapping around its scaly underbelly.

The dragon makes another sound, much like an indignant growl before screeching faintly as it squirms, bright red feathers ruffling as it tries to look at Arthur. He's unimpressed It hardly stays still, claws barely missing Arthur's arm and he's more than happy to give her the chance to be let down when Arthur tosses her back onto the settee.

If the thing had been fully grown, he may have actually been _concerned_ about the look it gives him.

Instead of going off to hide again—like Arthur expects—it tips its snout into the air, sniffing and whining, tail swishing quickly.

 _Oh_. Arthur knows that look.

 _Hunger_.

The meat! Merlin mentioned it being in the fridge if it got hungry, and now seems to be that time.

He could go grab it, heat it up and bring it back out and leave the dragon to its own.

But if Arthur learned anything in the past few days, it's that it couldn't be _trusted_ left on its own.

Sighing, he turns for the kitchen. Before getting much further—another rumble comes from behind him Arthur glances over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow.

"I'm trying to feed you." he tells her. " _Food_. Meat?"

Yet it doesn't move, and Arthur barely restrains a groan of frustration.

"Fine. Have it your way."

Surely once he has the meat out and it smells it, it would come running. Arthur has never been squeamish of raw meat collecting juice, or at the wet, sloppy noise of it hitting surfaces. He may have only ever properly cooked for himself a few times in his life, but he's a _hunter_.

Sure enough, not a few moments later, the clicking of claws against wood is heard, quicker and quicker before a flash of red darts into the kitchen.

Arthur leans against the worktop, eyeing the dragon suspiciously. Compared to the normal subdued nature, now its golden eyes _flash,_ jaw hanging open. Feathers ruffled and joints on her back moving in in agitation.

This thing can just as easily _eat_ him when it's older... as it can with Gaius now.

Tiamat scampers towards the humming box— _microwave_. Now, he can see the true nature coming out. The ferociousness. The danger. Even if it's just a slab of meat, that instinct is there. And Arthur's _stuck_ with it.

At last, the _microwave_ beeps, causing the little beast to flare in surprise. Arthur climbs over from where he's perched on a stool to hopefully avoid the eager teeth below. The plate steams and is not quite done enough for him to even _think_ about stealing a bite—as if the _dragon_ now pawing up at him is enough of a reason not to.

"Get back," Arthur tells it grumpily.

He tugs his foot away with a single claw snagging the hem of his jeans. Grabbing a kitchen knife, Arthur hurriedly slices off a chunk and flings it. The first piece bounces off its nose, the anxious noises cutting short in surprise before the dragon spins around and attacks the bloody piece, wolfing it down.

Arthur purses his lips, pushing back a bit further in his stool when golden eyes dart back to him.

He will have to keep them coming. _Fast_.

*

He keeps moving on.

If Merlin wants to feel... close to himself again, to not feel lightheaded while doing regular activities, to stop the unexplained and violent nosebleeds, to ease Arthur's concerns, it will take loads more than _one_ vein to achieve what he desires. And he understands this more surely, as Merlin draws closer to the outermost protection ward.

He winces, teeth clenching visibly. The damage to it is _immense_. Another direct blast of foreign magic or dark will strip it from existence, ripping through Merlin's ward like sodding-wet tissue paper.

A _larger_ vein of the earth's magic is needed.

Before Merlin decides to cover those last few miles, right to the very borders of his woods, he takes a short rest to catch his breath, leaning with his head and back fully to scratchy bark.

Not the most comfortable place, but really, there had been worse.

Can't stay for too long, however. Arthur will start calling. And be furious if the call happened during the ritual where Merlin will have turn _off_ his mobile to be able to summon his concentration.

Merlin fumbles in his pocket a moment with his right hand, slipping out his mobile. He slides it open with his thumbpad, gazing over the bolded time and the photo he chose as a background on the mobile's face.

There had been a brilliant photo-op the other night, when he and Arthur decided to eat supper in the parlour, on the couch. Tiamat then decided she wanted the tiny space available between both men, wriggling herself there and forcing it. Naturally, Arthur had something particularly backhanded and nasty to say about it— which left Merlin to tell him to shove off and took his cleaned plate to the kitchen sink. If not to also clear his head before they rowed.

Arthur must have knocked his fork off his plate, as Merlin reappeared and saw the other man reaching towards the wood panels, searching for it.

With his back now turned, Tiamat's yellow-glow eyes honed in on the fresh hunk of gravy smothered meat on Arthur's plate. She crept slowly, cautiously to the unguarded plate with opened jaws.

Merlin barely had been able to contain his laughter as he snapped the photo.

Ups or downs with Arthur and the fledgling... Merlin feels hopeful. Maybe it's silly. But he's sure they can all live under the same roof.

If Arthur can handle a couple hours alone with her _and_ feed—

Something whistles loudly near his ear. Stormy blue eyes snap up, Merlin's head jerking to the side as the object whizzing past him strikes the tree, splintering the bark and embedding into it. He gawks, backing up, his face inches from and peering right at the arrow. A _barbed_ arrow—its vane carved thin and mottled black.

Merlin doesn'r need to estimate or lift his fingers against the tree to measure the arrow's length. He already knows the arrow's owner.

Before he can seek out the location of his assailant, another arrow finds its destination, this time at Merlin's feet, centimetres from impaling. Panic blaring within him, his sorcery roars under Merlin's skin, urging him to take action.

And he does. The only possible option:

Merlin runs.

For how far and how long, it doesn't feel long _enough_. He isn't at full strength. Merlin's chest and his lungs flame at every new step, breathes shortening and hoarse, mouth dry.

But his legs keep going, body in motion. It must have been a good distance before Merlin is thrown by an invisible force, crashing headfirst to the ground and tumbling.

The shock of it tunnels his vision black, spinning his equilibrium wildly.

His lip and right cheek scrapes debris and aches, starting to bleed freely as he collects his wits and forces himself upright.

{ _Where are you?_ } Merlin pushes the thought, anger-bright through the mental connection.

Though he's exhausted, and winded, and now up to his elbows in mud. Knowing somewhere— _somewhere_ she lingers just outside his foresight, deeply shadowed. "...Is this how you fight now, Meadhbh? Are you still afraid because you can't seem to win?" he says aloud, rising to his feet. " _Face me_ instead of hiding."

Resentment howls, just as loudly as his magic, inside him.

Merlin gazes around, up towards the veiling of trees, and then circles the open area of forestland, bleak and gray in December mid-light.

"Let's see who the victor—"

A bitter, sharp sense of queasiness overcomes Merlin, ripping the air from him and stopping up his words. Standing in front of him, Queen Mab eyes him up close, her expression hardened. Her mahogany fingers wrap to Merlin's stubbled chin, those bare, dirtied nails pressing his skin.

The energy sinks out of him, replaced with the new, unexplained queasiness. A cold and eerie burn that spreads from his very center. It... feels like a very real _warmth_ also cascading out of him.

Merlin's eyes flick down, only briefly, slowly gathering in his fogging realisation that... _yes_. His face isn't the only thing now bleeding.

To the hilt, what appears to be a silvered, pearly-colored dagger jams inside him when Mab thrust it, her other hand still cradling his face. Right below the sternum and in-between his lungs.

"Do you remember this blade, child?" she asks him, nails leaving sore marks to the flesh on Merlin's chin, as that grip clenches. Her grey eyes—hideous and an old, _old_ power—darkening to red. "Do you hear its song? It sings of your precious King, and how it took him away from you." With a flick of her wrist, the blade within Merlin twists in place, deepening a sense of both warm and cold so fast it tremors him.

"And now... it's _your_ death song it shall remember, Emrys."

Merlin groans breathy with closed lips, as what remains of Mordred's battle-sword slides agonizingly out of his body. Poison— _no_.

No, _yes_ , it was there— _too_.

But the swollen nature of dark magic can't be mistaken. She infused it within the blade, _tainted_ the properties of Aithusa's breath.

Using the opportunity to her advantage, his weakened state and the outside magical wards near-collapsing, Mab can finish what she started over three hundred years ago... just as he may have expected.

Merlin's lips curl into a little, humorless smile.

"...'ey were right after all," he points out, voice throaty. Mab's fingers drop from his chin. " _Mhh_... great minds do think alike."

Merlin's left hand seizes for the letter opener he carried on his person. He lunges forward, burying the pure iron weapon into her breastbone.

Queen Mab shudders, eyes widen.

Her delicate, human-sized mouth rounds out as a shrill, pain-intensified scream leaves her. Both of Merlin's hands clutch to the iron handle, dragging downwards and ripping through her chest.

When she falls motionless, blanketed by the dry, hard moss of the woods, several things happen in tandem of each other.

Mab's human appearance shrivels into nothing, revealing but yellowed bones beneath her robes and empty, black sockets. Mordred's blade falls with her, reducing itself to fine powder before it touches the ground. And the surge of adrenaline that essentially saved Merlin's life begins to diminish, rolling his hazy eyes to the back of his head as he stumbles.

He catches himself, and thankful for it, one hand presses to a nearby tree trunk and the other clasps over his diaphragm.

The wound pulses blood, leaking anew with each small, gasping exhale.

_(Mab was finally gone... and it still felt like she had won.)_

The poison feels like a nausea growing in him, he realises. Likely coated to the blade when it entered Merlin. And the dark magic...

He knows _this_ cold burn spreading. Within his joints and his marrow. How it itched raw at him, like million of insects in his belly. How it threatened to _consume_ him in the very end. Merlin knows how it crept, physically and mentally, burrowing inside him, lying its seeds.

Real fear claws at him.

" _Arth'r_..." he mumbles, grimacing and bending over, yearning so suddenly and so _desperately_ for a glimpse of the other man. The man he _waited_ for, ages long passed and heart full of sorrow. His sun-gold, laughing face. Arthur's quiet, honest smile. The comfort of his soul-light, his humanity and its radiance washing over him.

Merlin has to...

There are no dragon-kin this time for him. No longer anything important to sacrifice that is his own. Nothing in him. There is, and only will be worth protecting... those left in his cottage.)

Shakily, Merlin tucks the letter opener away, hands sticky with filth. No longer able to tell whose blood dries between the cracks of his fingers.

He has... to make it home.

*

Every vine, every woodland trillium under his feet trampled... they slowly blacken into ashes, rejected by the earth and scattering to the wind.

 _This_ is what it meant be a walking abomination.

Merlin's heart already sputters its frantic pace, unable to keep working fully—not with his blood flecking to emerald green ferns, as the warlock carries himself onward, no longer clutching at the pillar-trees.

A fever roils beneath the heated surface of Merlin's skin, perspiration trickling down his brow and gathering under-arm. Fever of the poison.

Somewhere during the walking, however much distance Merlin put between himself and the yellowing bones, he needs to _stop_. Scrambling blindly to grasp one of the trees as Merlin empties his stomach. He shakes violently, head to foot, head lowered until the overwhelming pressure of crawling spasms in his gut lessens.

Just leaving the taste of sour, ugly bile flooding in the back of his throat and the inevitability of what's coursing through his body.

The magic inside him throbs like an infected cut, bare and festering.

We _don't_ give in, a voice whispers from the recesses of his mind.

_We don't give into it._

Merlin strangles out a gasping cry, tightening his blood-slippery hand against the wound. Trying to keep his heaving under control.

_"Nor I." A sleepy memory: Arthur's teeth and golden bangs. "If only I had been able to wake up like this sooner, I feel like those cold nights would have been much different." Lips ghosting Merlin's. "But I still had you by my side. That was enough. It's all I've ever needed."_

That's all he ever needed. That's all Merlin ever wanted.

"D-don't," he whispers back, face ashen and begrimed. Every limb hurting when it moves. But a stirring of hope convinces Merlin to take the excruciating steps on. "...don't give in."

The sun still climbs above him, soft, yellow light dappling the leaves when Merlin discovers the familiar path to his cottage. And then from a distance, he spots the boulder-stone gates and moss walls.

As Merlin approaches, though ever-slow, nearly limping in effort to keep himself upright and his chest-wound from straining, dread fills him. A more _certain_ dread than the knowledge of the dark magic.

Arthur will be... there won't words for the betrayal he will feel. The anger. The fear. This wasn't supposed to be a fight for Merlin's _life_ out there. (This was supposed to be a simple ritual. But since when did they get what they wanted? And since when was anything _simple_?)

Merlin _doesn't_ want his king... _his_... not to see him like this.

But can't leave his wounds untreated. Or leave the poison filtering and clogging his senses and forcing out his quickened breath, or...

He jerks back, crying out once sharply when a feeling like non-physical electricity, red-hot and piercing, shoots up his body. Merlin forces himself back from his own gate, blood-dried mouth gradually falling open.

The _inner_ ward, the cottage's ward.

... It's rejecting him.

A mournful anxiety twists in him, cloaked in bittersweet realization.

No. _No_ , it is better, isn't it? The protective ward is still in place. It can still _protect_ those within it, and no one can be free of it.

Merlin raises his muddied, free hand not clutching at his injured middle, staring at nothing in particular because visibly there's _nothing_ there. His fingers presses down on the enchanted ward, as it buzzes and buzzes endlessly, letting them feel the shock, letting the noise increase in fury until it seems the very air wants him _gone_.

His fingertips return into view, Merlin's skin blackened and singed.

There's no getting through this.

*

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tune in June 3rd for the next chapter! Any thoughts or screams or feels accepted in the comment section! xD


	43. Chapter 43

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE EXCITEMENT CONTINUES! I've got the next chapter scheduled for later in the month because I'm gonna be busy, but stay tuned! I hope you all are enjoying yourself and I love you loads and if you have a moment, please leave any thoughts! :)
> 
> Half of this fic wouldn't exist without [marlena_darling](http://archiveofourown.org/users/marlena_darling/pseuds/marlena_darling) and I wanna say thank you for taking this journey with me and you've been a best friend to me. I love you lots and this is ours.

*

Arthur has his work cut out for him if he wants to keep up with the hungry dragon.

But after a few minutes, he grows steadily used to the pace it sets. Arthur tosses down more than one meaty piece at one point, just to stall and readjust on the stool without it thinking he's running off with it's food. The way it circles below makes Arthur believe it believes it's a possibility.

Having more to choose from seems to slow it down, gnawing on the chucks of bloody beef with less severity. It gives Arthur the chance to sit back and think about what on _earth_ he's going to do while Merlin is away. He mentioned cleaning up more, which Arthur supposes he can do. The kitchen may _need_ it after feeding is over.

Mostly, Arthur isn't sure what to do with the _creature_ at his feet.

Merlin reminded him before that it's hardly a pet and didn't need that sort of care —like Arthur _really_ knew what taking care of a pet by himself meant anyways. He understood the basics of course: keep it fed, keep it active. Tiamat can handle that, but that doesn't mean he _trusts_ the damned thing. While it sleeps, Arthur can leave it be.

 _Awake_?

Not so much.

He can stay in the parlor, maybe steal a book from Merlin's library and settle himself on the settee. It would help pass the time and keep his mind off of Merlin.

Arthur likes that idea very much.

A chirping noise jolts him out of his thoughts and Arthur glances down, catching sight of Tiamat staring up at him, feathery tail swishing. Arthur purses his lips dryly before tossing another piece of meat down. This time the dragon's jaw opens in time to catch it before it hits the ground, ducking its head down in satisfaction while chewing. Arthur's lips tick up despite himself.

He isn't sure how long they went about this game, Arthur tossing meat and Tiamat either catching it or letting it drop to the ground to attack for itself. He stops paying attention again, tossing pieces whenever he hears a noise from the floor. Arthur even leaves the stool, moving around to the sink to clean up the dishes left behind. It's been slowing down, not eating as much as before, giving a little bit of time before whining for more.

Arthur has a dish in his head when a sudden sound pierces the air, sharp and shrill.

The plate drops as he looks down, startled and wondering if he stepped on the dragon's tail. Tiamat's eyes are black slits while the gold shines eerily, contrasting with the red feathers and wing joints that fluttering around uneasily. Arthur crouches, reaching out a hand in concern.

Is it choking? What the hell does he do with a _choking_ dragon?

A hiss. Arthur backs his hand away, noticing the panic. It's acting as if something is _wrong_ , like it's trapped.

The dragon scuttles away and out into the corridor, leaving a stunned Arthur.

What... just happened?

He fights down the churn of nervousness. Arthur slowly rises, checking the plate for breakage before moving to put the rest of the food away. Arthur has a feeling the dragon isn't hungry anymore.

After the meat returns in the fridge, Arthur peers out, where he hears quiet noises and sees the tip of a tail from the other side of the settee.

Well... it's not in danger of hurting itself, at least. Arthur heads to Merlin's library. Time for a book.

Eventually, he wanders back into the parlor with a leather textbook under his armpit.

The selection had been... interesting. Most of it involving him, Merlin, or their companions in some way. Arthur read the insides of a few, and scoffed at others before deciding he didn't quite want to read about a life he _supposedly_ led. He grabbed a title that caught his attention: 'World Wars Examined' or something along those lines. Arthur initially thought it had been lore, but the more he read the more real it sounded, so obviously he wanted to know.

Resting himself on the settee, Arthur opens the book, trying to put everything out of his mind. It works for the first fifteen pages or so, but then there's that familiar _chirp._ Arthur glances over the top of his book. There's the dragon, snout on the edge of a cushion while golden eyes stare up at him.

Whatever had put her off before passed, Arthur thinks to himself as he lowers the book. He stares right back, eyebrow raised in mild challenge before a hand gestures loosely to the other end of the settee where the electric blanket runs, sending heat up the side of his leg.

"It's all yours, but I'm not moving."

Arthur goes back to reading after that, trying to keep up with the overview in the beginning of the book all while ignoring the feeling that he's still being watched. It's otherwise silent until another noise accompanies the sinking of the nearby cushions. Arthur peeks over again in time to see Tiamat flop down, burying itself underneath the blankets. All he can see is the tail, and Arthur's lips pull into a small smile again.

They stay this way for a while — Tiamat occasionally moving and being...rather _domestic_ , while Arthur tries to catch himself up on the world. It was _nice_ , actually. Calm.

At least, until the dragon's head snaps up.

Arthur is a few chapters in by that point, absorbed in the book and the horrors it tells, but he notices the lump of blankets shift as the dragon makes a _strained_ noise much like before in the kitchen. Arthur pauses, lowering the book to look down at the small creature. Its feathers flattening and its pupils thin as she cranes her head towards the front door.

"What?" Arthur murmurs, head turning too when she cries out again.

He doesn't know what os getting into the little thing — it never did _that_ when Merlin was around.

Was that it? Did it _miss_ Merlin?

But then he notices the rumble. Low at first, just barely enough for serious consideration, but it slowly grows louder and louder. Finally it's to the point where Arthur knows he _isn't_ imagining it. The _buzzing_ , because that's what it is, rattles the windows, and fills the air around him. Tiamat is off the couch without hesitation, scampering towards the front door, and Arthur right behind her.

It's coming from outside, that much is obvious, but Arthur has no idea _what_. Could it be a plane? He had quite the shock the first time Arthur saw one, but he doesn't remember it being like _this_ before.

Part of him wonders if he should find the sword, the one from the faire, no matter how entirely dull it is. Instead, he settles for opening the door, keeping a foot in front of the dragon as his side to prevent it from darting out and so he can glimpse for the source. The buzzing grows more, more _unsettling_ by the second, but soon into background noise when he sees where it's coming from.

There's a figure by the gate, just outside where it's jarred open. Arthur feels his heart sink.

Merlin. That is _Merlin_ , slouched against nothing, just outside the cottage. And in that moment Arthur knows _everything_ has gone wrong.

Before he knew it, Arthur runs forward, pace quickly turning into a sprint.

" _Merlin_!"

*

The world turns darker.

It heaves and cries under Merlin's feet, blackening, turning everything to ash. His own protection ward continues shrilling and buzzing when he sways forward.

Sunlight of the mid-day fades its vibrancy above him, and through the glades and trees, turning milky greys and dusky, pale shadows.

Merlin's eyelids droop together, his burnt fingertips lowering.

The nausea, the cold and spreading burn within him... leaving a familiar taste of horror in his esophagus... erases from his mind, for a moment.

He can't believe how _stupid_ he had been. When it was clear what the repercussions would be. Mab had been waiting to strike—there was no question in that. Even before she attacked. It had been the _opportunity_ she wanted. To make him vulnerable. To make _him_ tear down the very last ward, and to steal Tiamat for her own gain, nurture her on hell magic and poison the fledgling mind and body and soul.

Mab's high-pitched screams and the yellowing bones enter his memory. A dark grin creeps over Merlin's face, stretching his mouth.

It may have been _stupid_ , and reckless, and ended in a gory knife-wound between his lungs—but she isn't going to win the battle, no.

Tiamat, Gaius, Arthur... they are safe. Untouched.

And not even _Merlin_ can force a change in that now.

To combat his blind and frightening sense of happiness in clarity, he hears Arthur shout to him, the noise of pounding footsteps. Dread filters in him, tilting Merlin's head up slowly.

Blood still rubs down his middle, from the slips of Merlin's fingers clasping over the deep chest-wound. It's a thick and rich lifeblood staining and drying his fleece, orange sweater and his trousers.

The panicked look on Arthur's face... it's far worse than any rage, any anger. More than anything else, Merlin wants to tell him... but he can't. He can't lie to Arthur's face that _everything will be alright_.

But Merlin wants to tell him _something_ , anything. It hurts to open his mouth. Instead of a syllable of Arthur's name, a wet wretch of a cough bursts out, and he cups his lips, squelching the new flow of blood. Not thick, not coppery enough, but watered down with spittle and bile.

Merlin sways again a little, rhythmically in, rhythmically out, one bloody hand to his chest, one bloody grasping his mouth, head bowed.

It feels like Arthur's feet doesn't carry him fast enough. Merlin is only just _outside_ the gate but.. it feels so far away, like an ever stretching pathway from where Arthur began.

No matter how many times Merlin proven that he could come back from wounds like this, or worse... it looks _wrong_ from the way he's slumping over. Arthur would get to him soon. He would scoop him up and find a way to _stop_ the bleeding once Arthur got him inside. Merlin would be _safer_ there, from whatever the hell this came from. He shouldn't have gone _alone_.

Arthur's nearly there, knees already weakening in preparation to fall to the ground and _hold_ him, but it's an abrupt halt when Arthur collides with something. He stumbles back a step, the buzzing charging in intensity as Arthur stares bewildered at nothing in front of him. There's _nothing_ there, and yet-

It's a rippling in the air, the hairs on Arthur's arms standing on edge.

" _No_."

The word leaves without Arthur realizing it. He's far too distracted by the knowledge that he cannot get to Merlin. Arthur's hands reach out again only to have the same effect: there's a _wall_ there, one that Arthur doesn't have the power to break.

It is _Merlin's_ ward, and for some reason it's not letting him in.

The panic roars inside him, Arthur's bright eyes jerking down to the form of his friend as the other began hacking, blood spattering into what seems to be open air.

It's a bit like rocking and floating away in the sea. The sea buzzes.

Merlin catches himself from leaning too far over, blinking out the veil of grey from the corners of his vision. The sudden jerk brings a new sharpened throbbing to his chest-wound, doing no benefits to it.

And the ferocious sort of buzzing grows noisier and noisier, unrelenting even to Arthur's fists crashing against the barrier of the invisible protection ward. His sun-gold face twists up in a mad, angered fury.

It;s fresh wave of emotion overcoming Arthur, palms and fists slamming into the _magic_ wall. The ringing in his ears increases, more _violent_ , but Arthur does it again before he sinks to his knees.

His eyes wide and worried, as he helplessly watches Merlin sway and gag on his own blood.

" _Merlin_ —" His voice cracks, heavy and raw in confusion and determination. "What's happened? You need to take it down, so I can help you."

There was no time for an explanation now, no matter how desperately Arthur wants to know. For now, his focus is on the several metres of air separating him from Merlin.

" _Break it,_ let me out. Let me get to you!"

No amount of words are necessary for Arthur's reaction, for his continued pained look of desperation. The breathy, low indication of Arthur's " _No_ "— how mournfully it tumbles from Arthur's lips—the outright denial and forsaken nature of Arthur's wide stare... tells all.

He's close enough to _feel_ , despite the barrier, to reach an arm out and grasp Arthur's knee. Squeeze it. Merlin knows that if he tried... his fingertips wouldn't be the _only_ thing now blackened to dead cells.

When Merlin hears his own name, he straightens carefully, wiping at his red-smeared mouth with the back of a visibly trembling hand. The taste of coppery blood and his own sick returning the creeping nausea.

This time, when Merlin opens his mouth, he forces his voice to a throaty rasp, as if the walls have been scratched out.

"I... can't."

The burning cold inside him warps in deeper, and deeper.

(How much time does he have... before Merlin _will_...? An urge to laugh grapples at him. What he wouldn't do to have Mordred's blade again...)

"The magic wouldn't recognize me even... if it could be done," he confesses after a moment. The bruised and swollen lip Merlin fell on aching as it moves.

"I tried... to do what was right." A thin run of blood pools out from Merlin's ear, dribbling to his neck. "I want that to be enough."

There's no plan. No solution. Nothing could have prepared Arthur for this, and now, he's left stranded. With no idea how to help, how to even _handle_ this. He has no real experience with magic. He hasn't the faintest clue how to break down the ward.

It's like his whole body slows, as if Arthur can't move as the world around him does instead.

His stomach knots, Arthur's heart pounding in his ears.

"I'm not going to watch you die." Arthur _loathes_ the weakness in his voice, how hollow and stretched it is.

Merlin told him he _couldn't_ die. It's not possible now... it's how Merlin lasted this long. So why does it feel so _different_?

*

It takes him a long and silent moment, but Merlin realises the noise of blood rushing in his ears is, in fact... blood rushing _from_ his ears.

Which may have disgusted him, the sensation curiously warm and tickling as more of the ruby-dark fluid slides down his neck, if Merlin had a better grasp on his disposition. It's getting harder to concentrate with the dizziness. Harder to stand on his weight, as if the stone-boulders from his gates replaced his organs.

How did this all happen? _How_ did it all?—-

It hasn't have been, but it _feels_ like endless ages since the impromptu farewell at the doorway, Arthur's body gravitating towards his, strong and large hands bracing Merlin's stubble-dark face. Steadying him and drawing him closer. Pomegranate and honey—Merlin could remember smelling it, on Arthur's clean, scrubbed skin, on the lift of his mouth.

Now his nostrils fill with the scent of sickly-sweet ashes. The grass beneath his feet no more winter grey and tough-bristled, but _death_.

 _We don't give in_ , that same voice whispers, floating in and out. It sounds like Gwen, her voice hardened and rasping after crying alone. It sounds like his father, on his dying breath. It sounds like no-one. It sounds like every-one he ever knew. It sounds like Arthur.

No, it _is_ Arthur.

Arthur, a seldom creature of distress, horror written in his blue eyes, hunched shoulders and shallow, rapid breathes on the opposite side of the ward telling him what Merlin already knows.

Immortal. Immortality. A terrible, lonely _curse_. No matter how many poisoned blades or daggers or arrows ran him through... how much blood Merlin lost... no matter the torment and mental affliction that feels like sometimes it will cleave him in two, mind and body shattered, and then into quarters, and then reassembled but with botched parts and lost slots of memory and emotions that barely feels like _Merlin_ —

Arthur sounds like he's keeping all the air tight to him, until his lungs bruise, until this moment could be wished away from existence.

And if Merlin's thick lifeblood leaving him _could_ grant that... hee would take the iron weapon in his back-pocket and open his throat against it.

Sooner rather than later, as that bone-cold fire spreads deeper and deeper, cavernous and rotting. Threatening to take him under.

"Dying would be..." Merlin's fingers clenches impulsively on his bleeding chest-wound. (The _solution_. A reprieve.) He hesitates, not being able to sigh in. Eyelids hooded. Staring in Arthur's direction, looking up, hurt.

"... _something I can do without, cheers_."

He does so bravely anyway, head raising, eyes ugly-bright. Merlin's face stretches a familiar, emotion-worn smile. Even if it shows the bloody pink film on his teeth. Arthur's face is the face he needs to see.

"Good, you're bloody well not," Arthur says, clenching his teeth.

The burning cold seizes around Merlin's heart, struggling its already thready pace. He chokes in a loud breath, sinking to his knees. Merlin's hand flew up from the wound, exposing it pitted and gore, his bloodied fingers gripping at his sweater, over the left side of his chest.

Crimson-colour floods over blue irises.

"No," Merlin gasped out. He squeezes his eyes shut, face grimacing.

" _No_."

"Merlin..."

When they reopen, the menacing hue fades to pure, glowing yellow.

"No," he murmurs decisively, almost eerily calm. Merlin's free hand tugs out the letter-opener, lying the object across his knee and gripped onto severely.

On contact, the iron burns like the seven hells.

Arthur watches in apprehension at the silvery glint appears. So... Merlin had been prepared for some sort of _attack_ , and yet took no armour of any kind—

 _Armour_.

His mind reels back, as if the answer he has been searching suddenly materialises into the forefront of his memory. The bracer, the one Merlin strapped to his arm after the archery tourney so long ago.

" _Wearing this will block the effects of any sorcery, as long as you have it. Including mine."_

Arthur's heart lurches in his chest, palm hitting against the barrier with fingers outstretched as he fights for the warlock's attention.

Merlin's eyes are gold and unsettlingly brilliant, but Arthur doesn't know if he can see. But Merlin can _hear_.

"Do not try to get up, do you understand?" Arthur's voice solemn and serious like a building storm. " _Stay_ and do not move. I won't leave you long."

Not a second later, Arthur pushes himself to his feet, quickly returning to the cottage with the door flung wide open. Tiamat sat in the doorway, screeching hoarsely as if it hasn't stopped since, but Arthur pays it no mind.

The object has to be _somewhere_. Arthur curses himself for not remembering the exact place it disappeared to, or even remembering _when_. How could he have lost it? He watched Merlin enchant it, tell him the power of it.

And yet, Arthur _lost_ it.

He curses himself again, practically taking the bedroom apart in his frantic search. _Nothing_. Not even a sign. Arthur does the same to the parlor, the kitchen, trying in vain. A hand rakes through gold locks as he turns in semi-circles, mind racing for any ideas.

Where the _hell_ has it all gone? Arthur glances towards the front door, the blood pumping in his veins crying out to run _back_ to Merlin, to keep him in his sights. But he can't do that, not yet. That;s when Arthur notices the sword isn't by the door, only the case.

Merlin complained about it before, saying the thing was cheap and more than likely would rust if they didn't clean it off. Which had let to lugging it into the back, Arthur insisting the whole time it wasn't _worth_ a fuss.

 _The loo_.

Suddenly it hits him, as brief of a realisation as the fleeting memory, but Arthur's feet already carry him into the room furtherest back in the cottage.

Bursting through the door, he spots the pile of clothes on the floor: Merlin's mud-ruined faire clothes, the sword leaning against the wall next to the broken chain-mail that is all too real. Neither of the men bothered to deal with it, which meant—

There it is, next to his sword discarded carelessly under his tunic, is the bracer.

Arthur lets out a ragged breath of relief as he snatches it up, closing his fist tight around it before near sprinting back out.

*

Arthur's voice, even brittle and wrecked it is, comes to him as a sweet, startling relief. It anchors Merlin from drifting off, falling under the vise of a squirming, cold burning and the inevitable darkness.

He feels his magic—his _own_ magic—fighting off the intrusion, but failing. Gold overtakes his blue irises and shines faintly, and fainter still.

The dragons, his kin and his blood-magic, let him succumb to it. Though it had been within their own realm, feeding him their influence, safely ridding him of the disease crawling inside his veins.

Merlin can't succumb, can't _let_ it happen.

The iron hurts him. Tries to reject him same as his own protection ward. Merlin's fingers wrap to it, more tightly, gritting his teeth.

Arthur slapped a hand to the ward repeatedly, the noise tinny and shrill from Merlin's end. He was _threatening_ Merlin to keep still.

That crazed urge to laugh, mere moments ago, finally wins out. He does, gut trembling, mouth cracking opening and throat aching. Air sucks in weakly through his teeth and lips, and then releases.

Arthur keeping face, Arthur treating Merlin like _Merlin_ and for the fear of losing him. It was absurdly _Arthur Pendragon_ of him.

Shock and utter relief courses through Merlin far deeper than he expects.

The decision to laugh had been a poor one, as his breathing rattles.

A watery cough racks him, sharpening the agony in his chest, and right down to his belly. Merlin feels more blood drip from his mouth. He's thankful Arthur gone inside (but for _what_?... What on earth could Arthur have assumed he could do?) That is it.

Arthur doesn't have a clue to what's happening. Who injured Merlin. What is _creeping_ like black tar up and down Merlin's veins.

Only that Merlin is _injured_.

A twist of fondness, of warmth so devout and so suddenly hits Merlin that it lumps and closes his throat. Hot tears building in his eyes.

Merlin stares down unblinking at his lap, at the letter-opener at his thigh.

It took care of Mab ( _didn't it...?_ )—it could stop him temporarily. Or permanently. The chances are astronomically out of his favour.

He swallows down the lump, pressing his bloodied lips together.

" _Ar'hr... m'srry..._ "

Merlin begins lifting the iron blade, expression slowly crumbling apart, meaning to drive it into the gore-clotted wound in his sternum.

 _This could be it_.

This could be Merlin's chance to end it now.

Before the hell magic Mab pushed into him would overpower and consume, pull him under. Twist him into a deranged, haunted resemblance of the already hollow and saturnine man he is.

The iron glints against the fading sunlight that smells so warm, airy.

(He never got to show Arthur how to garden the plants or the flowers. Merlin's favorite music cassettes. What was on the telly. Vienna and Paris and America. The Eye of London. Taught him how to use a credit card, or to rollerskate, to enjoy a movie, or to share a midnight picnic with wine under fireworks. How to _perfect_ being kissed awake.)

A quiet sob emits from him, hands trembling around the blade. He _can't_.

He can't do it. Not for humanity, for Tiamat. Not for Arthur.

But Merlin's tired arms don't lower.

He _has_ to. And be quick about it. Or Arthur will die.

Everyone... every innocent life to come across him _will die_. Because of him.

*

There's little running through Arthur's mind other than the urgency of his heartbeat, the adrenaline rushing through his veins shouting _now!_.

The bracer bunches so tight in Arthur's hand he feels its edges digging into his palm, without a doubt leaving marks. But he refuses to loosen up even a little, making sure that it's there and that he has it. He won't be letting go, not until Arthur has to.

The front door knocks out of the way now, Arthur shoving himself out in the sun. It feels so out of place _since_ the world has never felt so dark and cold. But... Merlin is there, still sitting up, conscious from the looks of it. But the closer Arthur gets, the more something loos off. Merlin stretches himself, arms lifting, but it isn't until the sun glints off the metal blade that Arthur notices _what_.

"No! _Merlin_!" The name rips from his throat, Arthur's feet picking up speed, but this time instead of crashing into the wall... Arthur feels it ripple around him, like a warmth swimming around him.

Before Merlin's resolve surfaces once more, the letter-opener rips right out of his spindly, bloodied hands. Merlin's skin nearly jumps, and he can't deny it— there is someone _in front_ of him. Arthur tosses it onto the grass.

Merlin doubts the _clarity_ , not believing it when the other man holds onto Merlin's face and digs large, tanned fingers to his arm.

Arthur's breath shudders as he goes to his knees.

"Don't you dare," he rasps, and even though his breathing comes out irregular and his tone firm, there's _exhausted_ relief underneath it all.

Hot tears rolls down Merlin's cheeks, over his bruise-darkened nose. "You're here," he croaks out, weak and awed, lips parting. Merlin's hand clumsily touches Arthur's opposite cheek.

It's _real_. There was no mistaking the familiar soul-light, his presence.

Arthur swallows, pressing his forehead against Merlin's as he collects himself.

A sense of absolute _terror_ and reprieve clamps down to Merlin. A gust of heat, of Arthur's breath falls onto his opened mouth. Merlin's pure yellow-gold eyes flutter shut as he leans heavily to Arthur's forehead, willing away the awareness of the nausea and a burning cold. The other man smells like perspiration but also stricken-horror.

"I'm here," Arthur repeats in the same breathy voice. Merlin's hand is heated against his cheek and all Arthur wants to press into it, let his lips kiss every inch of soft skin and just hold him. But he can't, not yet.

"I need to get this on you," Arthur mutters, pulling away, fidgeting with the bracer straps as quickly as he can. Merlin feels heavy against him as Arthur undoes bracer, but he hardly minds. Because that means he's there, that Arthur managed to find a way ot him. Merlin could've fallen on top of him and kept him on the ground for all he cared as long as this works.

Arthur finally got it off his wrist and onto Merlin's, making sure it was strung tight

Something's amiss. It _hurts_ to feel Arthur so close. Like the nexus of the weaving magic inside Merlin, the light and the dark, shrunken.

Merlin's eyes follow the archery bracer Arthur straps to him.

The... _bracer_. It.

It feels like Merlin's being torn into pieces inside himself. He grunts, struggling against Arthur a moment, breathing shallow, color still ashen beneath the blood and dirt. Eyes flickering back to an ugly, gem-red.

With a burst of roughened strength, Merlin jerks Arthur by the collar of his shirt, a hand digging into the fabric. His voice formidable and too-calm. "No matter what happens, don't remove it," Merlin says, eyes fading to glow-yellow, the last three words softens to pleading.

"Merlin—"

At this, the very ground below their knees shake ominously. The protection ward remains unchanged, angrily buzzing and crackling.

Merlin's lips part further, posture slacking, as he tipped his head back, feeling magic within him hurtle upwards and the every cell on his body prickling in anticipation. A scream roars out of Merlin, neither his voice nor any beast, like agony, like the clash of a hundred storms.

It may have been _magic's_ cry of despair, for all the warlock knew.

And then.

Everything goes still.

Merlin's head snaps upright, eyes glassy but his natural blue hue.

The scent of fresh blood.

Within grasp, and without being interrupted, he seized back the iron blade. Merlin stares unfocused at Arthur, with fingers at the hilt of letter-opener buried into the meat of Merlin's thigh.

The millions of insects in his gut, the white-heat, the cold fading slow.

He clutches his dirtied wrist strapped with the bracer to himself, eyelids falling together. And Merlin falls too, soundless to unconsciousness.

A shiver wrecks Arthur's body, leaving him stunned and cold and shocked, ears aching.

" _Merlin_ ," Arthur says again in concern, catching Merlin's slumping body.

He's sure not to shake him, not to jolt Merlin in any sort of way. Arthur feels something cool against his hand and looks down to see a thin line of blood trickling through his fingers from where the iron blade embeds Merlin's leg. Arthur grimaces, trying not to press on the wound. He has already lost enough blood, and now this? Arthur can't _move_ him like this, not on his own. He isn't certain if he can get them through the ward.

He has to _wait_?

Arthur pushes his fingers through dark hair, smoothing it back and pressing his lips to Merlin's forehead.

"Don't do this, Merlin..."

*

 


	44. Chapter 44

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said there would be a new chapter around the end of June and wooo! I'm not gonna lie to you... I'm a big fan of Merlin's nightmare "dreams" and then seeing his magic manifest as a person and being affectionate with him BECAUSE THE REAL MVP IS MERLIN & MERLIN'S MAGIC. Ahhhhhh anyway enough of me being silly! Hope everybody still reading likes this and there will def be a new chapter in July! :)
> 
> Half of this fic wouldn't exist without [marlena_darling](http://archiveofourown.org/users/marlena_darling/pseuds/marlena_darling) and I wanna say thank you for taking this journey with me and you've been a best friend to me. I love you lots and this is ours.

*

He never hears Arthur's sharp intake of breath. Feels Arthur's fingertips brush against his scalp. Or his lips to Merlin's skin, pleading too-soft.

Merlin surrenders. Drifting with the abyssal void.

No, his eyes are shut tightly. Cracks of mid-noon sunlight hurt, as Merlin opens them with a great deal of caution for his aching skull.

Drums booming around him in a grim, mournful reverence. His arms send up stabs of pain, bound behind him, bound to a thick, wood pole at Merlin's back. He jerks in place, finding his hands bound as well.

Faces—so many faces. He recognises Tom, the blacksmith and Gwen's father. The tavern keeper's wife. One of the serving boys Merlin heard whispering about Sir Percival and his impressive _size_.

They stare openly at him upon the leveled platform, expressionless.

Flanking the crowd, and up high in the marbled cloisters, the knights pace restlessly. They wait soundless, capes rippling behind them like bloody, torn fissures in the skin of the universe.

"Been at the tavern again, have you?" Gaius asks plainly to Merlin's left, hands deep in the billowed sleeves of his simple, textured robe.

Everything blurs and shines magnificently around him, as if he's submerged in a bubble, before clearing once more.

"You have been accused and judged of treason against the crown, for going against our laws set and committing acts of sorcery."

No. It should have been a balding Uther there, glaring in plain disgust.

Instead, blond locks halo Arthur's head in the pure light as he speaks flatly. Merlin's limbs begin trembling violently, in shock, in agitated panic. "But that is not the worst of it, I'm afraid. You have taken the lives of innocents. The lives of people I once called my own family."

A weak choke of emotion seizes Merlin's throat. He stares back at his oldest friend, and then at his dearest queen nodding sympathetically.

"I—please, I haven't..."

Arthur's eyes, once bright blue summer-skies now grown cold, narrow. "Morgana would still be alive if not for you," he murmurs, blank-faced and taking a gentle pat to his shoulder from Gwen.

Tears sting the corners of Merlin's eyes. " _Arthur_ —"

"Why didn't you help her? Why couldn't it have been _you_?"

The many familiar faces of Camelot and his surroundings of the inner walls of the citadel distort, whirling. A hot breath against one of Merlin's ears. "You're the monster you always believed to be, my boy," Gaius says, his voice kindly, but tearing Merlin apart on the inside.

" _No_..." he croaks out, barely able to get out the one word, paled and shaking and lips fiercely pressed together.

Gaius takes up a flaming torch as a somber-faced Daegal passes it to him, nodding. Merlin's heart drops to his feet.

"No, no," he whispers. "Please—" No one's expression changes as Merlin tried to arch himself against his restraints, eyes wide on the flames. "—don't, _please_ , no" He can feel the heat, unforgiving and blinding, licking at his face. Merlin's voice grows to a scream, "—don't, don't, _DON'T_!"

The torch prods the dry kindling near Merlin's boots, searing with fire.

Smoke begins to cloud, darkening, going up hot and dense into Merlin's nose and turning his screams into gasping, heaving coughs.

Gaius doesn't blink.

"I'm afraid there was no changing that about you."

Rage-filled chants, people screaming and cheering and moaning in horror. Still unmoved, the knights of Camelot pace. Gwen hooks her arm through her king's, yawning delicately into one of her hands. And, Arthur watches with the same thinning expression, disinterested.

Closest to the burning, ominously creaking platform, a red-caped Mordred jabs a long spear in the air towards the warlock's direction, lips twisted into a sneering grin. The spearhead punctures through Merlin's ribs, burning hot-white and dripping crimson on those below.

Merlin throws his head back, seizing and consumed by the inferno.

Somewhere just beyond hallucinations, his own body mimicks his nightmares, jerking uncontrollably, the white of his eyes fluttering.

*

Arthur doesn't know how long he sits there by himself, or at least, what _feels_ like being by himself.

Merlin hasn't stirred, let alone gives a sign of consciousness since the bellowing scream faded and he slumped against him. Arthur is still on edge, every muscle in his body coiled in anticipation as his stomach loosens enough to sink, making him feel sick and horrible.

The true terror faded but his worry hasn't left just yet, and Arthur doubts it would until he has Merlin safely inside.

He has no idea what had just happened, no context whatsoever to help the spinning of thoughts and questions melding up every part of his mind. Arthur feels numb, his senses too tired of feeling to give him much more. Merlin's blood is on his hands, and staining his shirt too, probably. The smell of it in the air, against the cold sharpness of the winter air. The forest is strangely quiet; even the birds know the chaos that ensued and hide themselves until all is well.

The silence hardly helps, but it's better than the nerve-wrecking build of the energy field. The humming that grew louder and louder until it drownd out everything else except for the beating of his heart. That noise finally ends, leaving Arthur seemingly alone.

It leaves him with the lingering realisation: is _this_ what it was like for Merlin?

Had he been left alone in the woods with a body that slowly lost the familiar warmth, replaced with a cold that seeped into his chest? Did he feel the same panic, the same terrifying realization of _loss_? For Arthur, he had been able to hold onto hope. He had gotten to him in time. Merlin wasn't gone.

Not for the first time Arthur realises just how _lonely_ he must have felt. How Merlin must have continued to feel.

Arthur's heart swells painfully, his grip on Merlin strengthening as he bows his head. His eyes prickled, threatening to give way to the absolutely frustrated relief. But he swallows and pushed Merlin's hair back again, focusing on the fact that he's still warm, sweat stuck to Merlin's forehead. They had avoided death thus far, and Arthur is determined to keep it that way.

_Come back..._

His thoughts are interrupted by a sudden jerk from Merlin and Arthur lifts his head up in surprise. It doesn't take him long to realise that Merlin _isn't_ waking up.

This is worse.

Merlin convulses, eyes disturbingly flashing and limbs jerking. Arthur has seen it before, but that doesn't make it any less difficult to watch.

The magic is taking effect, doing _something_ , but Arthur quickly turns him so his head doesn't resting on his shoulder. He puts Merlin's head in his lap, grunting as he gently attempts to roll him on his side. He has to watch his head _and_ the wounds, all while making sure Merlin wouldn't choke or hurt himself in the process.

Arthur's eyes aew wide, focused completely on him.

"Don't do this, Merlin," he breathes to himself, a hand grasping Merlin's shoulders to keep him from hurting either of them. " _Merlin_!"

*

The whole of Camelot begins to fade into the colours of the leaping flames, orange, yellow, red, yellow, orange, white, dark, dark, _dark_...

He physically sinks into the ashes of the leveled platform groaning under the weight of his damnation pyre, his own inevitable fate. His bones crackles amongst the smoking heat, Merlin's flesh and his muscles bubbling and melting away from existence. Every possible inch of him, every nerve-end in him... shrieking for rescue, for mercy.

Sinking still, vanishing into smoldering, blackened embers—burnt toes and calves, wobbling legs, belly, to his shoulders and to his eyes. Merlin chokes on the poisonous air, and then on tasteless ash filling his mouth.

_Don't do this, Merlin._

He thrashes against the flame-hot ash like it's quicksand, hands freed from the wood pole, but still finding them trapped. Heavy.

_Merlin!_

The shout—neither distinguishable or toneless—filters in Merlin's ears, just he sinks, sinks to his nose and lets himself relax, ash swallowing him.

Darkness gives way.

Frosted mist drifts in the air, but hardly a chill. The air mild and warm. Breathable. The ghost of flesh-charred smoke leaves him.

He's out. Undamaged.

The soil damp, but not muddied and soaking. Merlin can feel it at his back, and the prickle-soft of new grass, cradling him. The glade shedding ample light high, broken into thin rays. Weirwoods of this forest proudly capped with vermilion leaves and bark white as bone.

Meadow-blossoms of pinks earthy-fragrant and surrounding him.

"Merlin," a new voice exclaims.

The woman holding his head in her lap gazes down on him, smiling fondly. Hunith, young as she was in Merlin's teens and with their blue eyes, strokes fingers to Merlin's cheek.

"Were you planning on sleeping the day away, my boy?" she asks.

He does not lean into her touch, blinking dazedly.

"Sleep requires resting," Merlin says quietly.

Blue eyes become green. Lady Morgana stares critically on him, dark hair beaded with expensive, rare gems and glittering in the light. She purses his lips distrustfully, but does not move Merlin's head from her.

"And you have no reason to?" she asks.

Merlin's eyebrows furrow. "... Am I dreaming?" he asks back.

Pale skin dirtied with grim and covered with wet rags. "You can't dream, Merlin," Freya tells him patiently, brown tangles dripping with river-water to his forehead. "You can only endure."

"I don't feel human," Merlin confesses, voice thick and swollen. "Arthur deserves a better man to show him what that means now."

Lips curl up, eyes narrowing. Mithian shifts her gossamer, bridal curtain, her sweet-lotioned hands cradling the sides of Merlin's head with friendly intent. "I don't think Arthur wants _another_ man," she said, chuckling.

"... It shouldn't be me."

Brown eyes soften doe-like. "But it has always been you," Gwen says him, holding Merlin's hand to her when he reaches to curiously touch her face. Finding it real, solid. Pulsing with life.

Merlin says as a half-protest, heart aching terribly, " _S'not real_."

She grins knowingly, morphing into narrower features. High, milky cheekbones. Rosy lips. Tufts of black curls.

"I'm as real as you," the mirror image of Merlin himself whispers, eyes an ancient gold.

Merlin's fingertips stroke a line against his twin's jaw, feeling the pure tingling of magic nudging to his skin.

"Have you ever loved someone?"

A long, deliberate pause. The frosted mist hovering over them. Gold-shine eyes crinkle in bland amusement, or perhaps it's unsettled apprehension, Merlin's own toothy, wide smile appearing.

Merlin closes his tired, blue eyes, feeling his twin's dry lips press slowly to his brow. A pleasant humming to the surface.

"You," the magic whispers, _his_ magic devoutly kissing Merlin's eyelids, " _You, you_."

A hot gust of breath skims his face, lips brushing his. "And that is the only reason—"

"—I'm alive," Merlin's own lips mouth this, bloodshot eyes opened. The grey, cold of the waking world spins him around like a drunk, bright carousel. It all comes back to him, broken fragment by fragment.

Despite the agony of the pitted chest wound, Merlin feels himself roll to his side, away from Arthur's path and out of his lap, gut clenching and throat slicken. He vomits spectacularly into the grass.

A thick, obsidian visceral matter expels from him, from between Merlin's lips, slimy and foul at the glance.

He coughs loudly through the few minutes of it, a lukewarm sweat collecting on Merlin's body.

His stomach feels _lighter_ , less scratchy as if millions of insects festered inside him vanish, as Merlin lifts his head up. " _Th'res thuupoison_ ," he mutters to no-one particular, uttering a breathy laugh and falling on his opposite side. Merlin's arm tumbles safely through his silent, invisible ward.

*

For what's probably mere moments, Arthur feels as though it's been much longer. Time slows down, his heart racing but leaving everything else. As he holds on, cradling Merlin's head in his lap, Arthur wishes for it to be over. He wants to be back in the cottage, warm in bed with Merlin safe and sound, sleeping peacefully next to him.

He wants to take back every angry word, every glare and stubborn silence. Take back things said out of fear that he _knows_ Merlin hasn't forgotten, and even worse, may have taken to heart. There are so many things Arthur has done wrong in such a short time that the pleasant times aren't enough, not nearly enough to match. Merlin won't die. He can't. But that doesn't make Arthur any less afraid of what this means.

Arthur isn't sure how many times Merlin's name leaves him, or what he says or if he really says anything at all. _Come back_ manifests as a chant in his head.

Blue eyes shoot open, the colour heightened by the red veins surrounding it. The words are hardly understandable, but Arthur is close enough to hear them. They restart his heart, the cool wave of relief flushing out the panic. Arthur stares down at Merlin in wonder, the sudden switch from unconscious and shaking to awake and moving away taking him a moment. All Arthur can do is watch as Merlin's stomach works its way onto the forest floor.

Whatever he says next made absolutely no sense, at least not to him, but Arthur scrambles to his side when Merlin falls back down. A hand grips his shoulder, his concerned gaze peering down on him with a deep frown before Arthur realises just _where_ Merlin lands. His hand reaches through the energy field, practically touching where Arthur had been forced to watch Merlin bleed out.

_He can get through._

The feeling of hope surges through his so fast Arthur has to swallow to catch a choked noise of relief. He releases a shaky breath as his other hand finds Merlin's cheek. "Merlin, can you move?" he questions gently. "Just a little. Enough that I can get you on your feet. I want to get you inside."

 _Arthur_... the warmth of him pressing near. His stomach still quivers and spasms inside Merlin, nausea gripping onto him like a vice.

Arthur's real. This world is _real_. Merlin os not drowning in ash, trapped, on fire, or grieving the haunt of people he lost eras-past...

His mouth tastes slick. Vile.

A hand pn to Merlin's cheek, pleasant and weighed. Arthur's words flitting in. The warlock takes a long, silent moment to gain a voice.

"... _Dunno_ ," he murmurs, still rolled on his side, half in Arthur's lap.

It's not a helpful by any means, but it's what Arthur expects. Merlin probably isn't sure of anything at this point. He hardly blames him. He returned to consciousness and spilled the insides of his guts onto the ground, all while continuing to lose blood. Arthur is just glad Merlin could _form_ words.

Still, he gives a tense sigh and nods to himself the thumb on Merlin's face sliding along pale skin. He's _alive_ ; Arthur can figure out the rest.

A hand goes into the dead, winter grass, fisting it as Merlin heaves up onto his elbows. Something's _wrong_.

New stabs of white-hot agony in bloody wound creep to Merlin's heart, his fingertips, and right into his pounding skull. Merlin's vision grays, eyes rolling.

" _Careful_ ," Arthur says, a tinge of criticism in his tone out of habit. Merlin should know _better_ than to move that fast, and he apparently fought the consequences. Arthur's hand relocates to Merlin's back, keeping him upright when the other starts to sway. If that's his reaction to sitting up... Arthur _knows_ Merlin wouldn't be able to get to his feet.

Arthur's lips thin, eyeing the man. "Be as still as you can," he warns. A grunt escapes him as Arthur loops an arm under Merlin's legs, slowly rising to his feet. Merlin's practically a dead weight, but still lighter than Arthur likes. Limp, almost.

The first few steps are fine, but it's the one that takes him through the gate that unnerves Arthur the most. What if he's _wrong_ and Merlin gets hurt, or the shield will not let him through? But that wrist guard is on him now, and there isn't even a sound or a shiver as Arthur steps onto the worn path towards the front door.

Tiamat is still crying in the entrance, feathers on edge and gold eyes thin slits as she clamours around Arthur's feet.

"Get out of the way." he growls to her in a huff of irritation. It hardly does any good. Arthur tries to not step on her while he makes his way inside, carefully shouldering open the door.

Now, he needs to figure out what to _do_ with him. Moving Merlin around more than he has to wouldn't do any good. Merlin needs rest, but the moment, he needs to be cleaned up. Taken care of. And the knife _needs_ to be taken out of his leg, because he could only be so careful for so long. Arthur needs to be cleaned off, too.

"Merlin," he says, voice loud enough to hopefully prompt a response. "I'm going to put you in the bath. But I need to know if you're going to start healing." Or if first priority should be the wound in his chest, which all of Arthur's instincts screams at him to take care of.

*

 _Careful_ is a stupidly obvious word, and Merlin is far more stupid to reasoning when his arms become useless and everything turns greyed.

He knows Arthur finally has him upright, holding Merlin there,. The warm pressure of a familiar, strong hand centering his back. Merlin's queasy stomach still roils once more against him, but all that leaves Merlin's lips is a retching, dry cough and then a meaty, soft hiccuping noise.

Everything from there blurs out in extreme clarity. Actually being lifted up, being nearly boneless Arthur's arms, Merlin's arms dangling in the air. A whisper on the blood-smeared surface of Merlin's right ear.

The pain is still there, trailing after Merlin, marked in his veins. Pulsing. But not the effect of dark magic that festered from the entrance of the chest-wound. He can't... feel his magic either. But it flutters weakly, out of his reach, protectively cocooning itself.

Merlin can't smell the wintery pine of the thick forest, or the brittle grass through the heavy, rotted stench of his own blood. Clotted inside his nostrils and lining his mouth and dried crusting to Merlin's clothes.

He doesn't want to think of the state of his clothes, blackened with filth and earth and his lifeblood mingled with Mab's blood. He doesn't want to think of that on Arthur's clothes either. Not that Merlin can think presently other than in ruined fragments, too-worn and thinned.

There had been a war. One of them. Too many. Merlin's blood spilled body-hot through his already dirt-speckled uniform. A scream for a lieutenant over the thunderous noises of firing rounds and bombing. Or maybe it was him. Everything shaking. The peninsula slew with bodies. Someone threw him down and pushed on the left side of his chest, near Merlin's collarbone. They were staunching the bleeding. They swore at the other officers who cowered and at those busy firing their arms, swore at Merlin, swore at the dead Brigadier, swore at the Turks, swore at their own God, swore and cried and yelled and bled.

Mortals were beautifully messy creatures of emotion. Though Merlin could not die from the gashing wound, and vanished several hours later as 'uncounted' death among the hundreds without names, as their troops admitted a sorry, carnage-filled defeat against enemy soldiers.

No one honored him; no one had known him truly. Merlin burned that dirty, pale brown uniform somewhere in Romania, using a glass bottle of cheap alcohol, am empty street and a striking match. Though no amount of flammable materials rid the memory.

A sensation of throbbing pain spikes from the iron letter-opener still embedded in Merlin's thigh. He groans wordlessly, incoherent.

Merlin's ears does however catch the dragon fledgling's growling whine and Arthur's voice sounding very irritated, like he's being pestered, as they maneuver about inside the cottage.

His lungs protest as the warlock inhales a breath, loosening his jaw, and the gory wound sucks in the very same air, whistling almost too low to hear.

Talking back isn't going to be an easy task.

"Shower first..." comes out more as a thickened rasp, like Merlin's throat begins to swell up together. "Then... wounds."

He understands Arthur's concerns immediately. Deep wounds like these are prone to a serious blood poisoning and infection. They both watched men and women die of exposure combined with grievous, injured health on battlefields, though Merlin and Arthur's experiences had been long centuries and seemingly whole worlds apart.

Merlin isn't healing anytime soon. Not even at the normal human rate.

So Arthur bites his tongue and carefully moved through the house and down the hall, leaving the door open and abandoned. He hears the clicking of claws on the wooden floor behind him, but they are slow, cautionary. When he reaches the bathroom, Arthur nudges the door shut with his foot. The last thing they need are dragon nicks adding to the wounds.

Merlin forces himself to anticipate being lowered, to the tiled floor of the loo, propped up against the toilet as Arthur shuffles around him and grabs towels from the interior cupboard. He manages not to pass out, which feels like quite the achievement.

Arthur's eyes lower on the jutting hilt of the letter-opener. The object needs to be completely removed before Merlin can properly get his trousers off. It does against all of his medical training to do it like this but he nods to Arthur, ash-pale and bloodied features.

"Do it quickly," he murmurs, Merlin's hands limp at his sides.

 _Quickly_ means further injury, torn vessels and muscles, scraping bone.

Merlin can take the pain. He can take it in and stretch his endurance to the brink, and as he always did, come back from it gasping and heaving.

He never wanted to, never wanted to be stabbed repeatedly in the dark or yank out a bullet from his kidney or to be burned alive on a pyre... then again, really, there were loads of things Merlin never _wanted_.

For what it was worth, Arthur is doing a brilliant job keeping face, despite his silent concerns and his questions overloading questions. He moves without trembling hands, not fumbling for items, eyes their clear, deep blue.

Arthur knows hearing it from Merlin that he's immortal, that he can walk away from the severest of injuries, and Merlin needs him to _remember_ that. He needs Arthur to _not_ worry about him senselessly. It will do them both no good right now with Merlin's thoughts hazing in and out of any fragment of articulation, when his body is too-heavy and throbbing.

And that damn letter-opener, that no longer feels like it was sending currents of blistering heat through his veins, but rather dully aches. Merlin hates it. Oh, he hates it. He hates that he felt that compelling urge to jam it into his thigh, just to escape the creeping, powerful hold of dark magic on him.

When Arthur's fingers grasp around the iron hilt, Merlin scrunches up his expression, breathing loudly out his blood-crusted nostrils and holds forcefully onto his injured thigh. Now, he screams internally.

_Do it._

"Take a breath," Arthur murmurs.

Merlin's nerve wavers for a minute as the other man presses in, fingers touching Merlin's hair and Arthur's lips on him, his sympathetic voice. That is the most... frighteningly _surreal_ of it. Someone here who _cares_ how much it could hurt him.

His leg jolts with it, as the blade wretches straight out of him. Merlin utters a low whimper through closed lips, head tilting forward. As any other penetrating trauma, the letter-opener acted as a stopper. Without it, and Merlin is sure a muscle torn further despite how Arthur didn't jerk or twist its blade on its way out, Merlin's blood wells out alarmingly.

With a start, Merlin realises he _had_ forgotten to breath. Inhaling several gulps for air does the trick of lessening the fierce spinning of the room.

The letter-opener clatters to the floor, rattling against the tile while Arthur moves to grab one of the towels, pressing it down against the wound firmly while he looks it over. There's already dark red spots shining through. Arthur takes one of Merlin's hands and guides it to where he has his, pressing it down against the towel.

"I need you to hold it there as firmly as you can, understand?" he tells him, speaking slowly, eyes never leaving Merlin's face. "I need to get the water running and then I'll take over."

Arthur coaxes him, shifting one of Merlin's hands to the towel pushing down on the new wound. Merlin hears every other word through the growing buzz in his ears, but understands the message clear enough with his hand on the towel and Arthur going to the bath.

He honestly does need that bath. Sweat tacking his hair and most of his torso, dirt covering nearly every him, bruises and shallow cuts to one side of Merlin's face. The visceral black matter on his lips and chin, along with copious amounts of blood and if Merlin could smell himself... not that he would.

If he can't take off his jeans at the moment, Merlin would attempt his ruined top layers. With his free hand, he grasps at the hem of his undershirt and sweater. Merlin is ready to push his arms out of their sleeves when he notices dimly that the fabric sticks to his chest. His left arm got free with relative easiness, the arm not holding down the thigh wound, before Merlin peels up.

The renewed burst of agony to the pitted wound, to its surface dried and crusted with gored flesh, opens Merlin's mouth wide. The ragged cry drawn out of him leaves Merlin's body in shakes, the wound itself pulsing.

Gods, he needed to finish, gods no, _no_ —Merlin's cheeks burn, but his color ashens as he peels again, the fabric of his undershirt like a hellish adhesive. Merlin rips the sweater collar over his head, everything over, and lets go of his thigh to force his other arm from his sleeve.

Merlin has no idea if he cries out again, how many times, how painfully, but his breathing grows rapid, hyperventilating, feeling lightheaded. His bloodied top layers join the letter-opener, useless on the tiles.

*

Arthur has to keep going. He has to keep moving, to stay focused on the task at hand so he wouldn't stop and apologize everytime Merlin made a wounded, pitiful noise.

They happen continuously, even Arthur wonders if Merlin knows he's making them. Each are like Arthur had taken out the knife and stuck in through his own heart, twisting it each time. Of course, Arthur knows he's in pain without Merlin vocalising it. There's no way, magic or not, that he wouldn't feel pain from the build up of wounds being reopened.

 _Idiot_.

He was an idiot for not listening. For not listening to instinct, to _him_. Merlin hadn't been strong enough to fight, and now he has been on the brink of death for the last...however long they had been out there. Time means nothing. All Arthur knows is that he was angry and frightened and so lost as to what he could do to help.

Maybe it was because Arthur _knew_ he couldn't help.

Arthur can't take the pain away. Couldn't heal Merlin's wounds or turn back time to stop it from happening. All he can do was run a damned bath, his empathy reaching out with every beat of his heart. Arthur isn't used to feeling this _helpless_. His body moves through the motions and yet all it is for Merln is filler. Just a distraction. But if that's all he can offer...Arthur will do it. Anything to feel like he isn't standing by and watching.

He tests the water, determining that it;s the right temperature, but the sudden cry from behind him makes Arthur's head turn sharply.

Merlin has the shirt over his head and the wound is even more horrible now that he could see it contrasting sharply against pale skin. Dark red and brown blood dried against his chest and fresh waves starting to trickle out as the wound reopened. Merlin's face is an eerie mix of flush and green, making Arthur feel even more unstable than he already does.

_I'm so sorry._

Even his inner voice sounds weak as those words run through his mind, bright blue eyes observing as Merlin fights for air. Arthur isn't sure if he said it outloud. He isn't sure of _anything_. But his mouth works on its own accord as he joins Merlin by the sink again, pressing the towel against the wound again before grabbing another towel and doing the same with Merlin's chest. They still have to get the bottom half of Merlin's clothes off, and it was going to be just as unpleasant as the top.

Words come out though Arthur has no idea what they were; he keeps his voice low and consoling as he tries to help Merlin focus on something so he doesn't pass out.

Maybe it'll be a reprieve if he does.

Arthur tugs Merlin's trousers off and it reopens the leg wound more as he knew it would, but there's nothing to do but bear it. Merlin is naked and covered in blood, and it's a sight that is incredibly _unsettling_.

There's no way Merlin will be able to move on his own. As gently as he can, Arthur lifts him again, carrying him the few steps to the bath before settling him down against the tile. His own clothes are getting wet, heavier as his hair stuck to his forehead, but Arthur doesn't care. Eventually he strips his shirt, loathing how the the blood drips and stains.

"It's almost over," Arthur hears himself say at one point. His mouth near Merlin's ear as he rinses some water through his hair. "You'll be in bed soon and it'll all be over." He wishes it truly could be that simple, but...

Arthur wonders if it would _ever_ be that simple.

*

 


End file.
